


Safe As Houses

by meansgirl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Accidental Cuddling, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Anthea (Sherlock) is the Best PA, Art, Bathtubs, Blow Jobs, Cabin Fic, Caretaking, Cats, Classic films - Freeform, Cooking, Crushes, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, Drawing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Sex, Eventual Smut, First Kiss, Flirting, Frottage, Getting Together, Hand Jobs, Headaches & Migraines, Hugging, Isolated Together, Isolation, Kissing, M/M, Making Out, Masturbation, Movie Night, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Nude Modeling, Playful Sex, Reading Aloud, Requited Love, Safehouses, Sleeping Together, Talking, Talking During Sex, The author has stopped trying to hold back on the fluff, Video & Computer Games, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, anthea ships it, praising, safe sex, waking up together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:41:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 45,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26923048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meansgirl/pseuds/meansgirl
Summary: Sitting in a safe house that looks like an office building on its outside, and more like a palace from the inside, Greg feels very keenly that this entire situation stems directly from a phone call which happened over a decade ago.*Greg and Mycroft are caught in a minor explosion. Unfortunately, said explosion takes place in a highly classified government bio research lab. To err on the safe side, they'll need to spend two weeks together in isolation. What could possibly happen next?
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 399
Kudos: 655





	1. I Can't Get Started

**Author's Note:**

> So a lot of folks have written quarantine fic During These Times. I didn't want to write anything that had to do with current events, but I did like the idea of these two being stuck together somewhere for two weeks. So! One Sherlock plus one classified lab plus our heroes equals a minor explosion leading to two weeks in isolation. This is pure fluff and love and sex. Maybe a mildly slow burn at first. This will update frequently :)

It started with an explosion. 

Well, no. It started with a classified laboratory. 

_ Stop me if you’ve heard this one before.  _

Actually, Greg’s pretty sure it started with a posh voice over the phone demanding to know what Greg wanted with its little brother. 

Sitting in a safe house that looks like an office building on its outside, and more like a palace from the inside, Greg feels very keenly that this entire fuck up of a situation stems directly from that phone call, which happened over a decade ago.

It’s the universal truth of Greg’s life at this point: All roads lead to Holmeses. 

“How long?” Greg asks for the third time, hands rubbing nervously at his thighs. 

Mycroft Holmes, who started this whole thing with that phone call way back when, pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. “Two. Weeks. The answer will not change upon further repetition, Detective Inspector—”

_ “Hey,”  _ Greg snaps. 

“Nor, I suspect, will repeating it make the concept more palatable to you,” Mycroft finishes. 

Greg clenches his fists and he breathes through the urge to flip the centuries-old table in front of where he’s sitting. “I’m not trying to… It’s just… what about work?”

“It will be taken care of,” Mycroft sighs. “Of course. And— I apologize for my snappishness. I am merely frustrated.”

“Yeah.” Greg sags back into his seat. “Me too. I’m sorry, too.”

“No need,” Mycroft starts, then pauses when a chime sounds from somewhere far away. “That will be my assistant leaving supplies at the side entrance. Excuse me.”

Greg watches him go and wishes his hands weren’t filthy right now. He’d love nothing more than to rub at his eyes, scrub at his hair, scream into his palms. Anything to let off a little steam. He wishes Sherlock were around, just so he could punch him in his stupid smug face. 

This is all Sherlock’s fault. Sherlock and his tendency to be where he shouldn’t be, and to drag idiots like Greg along with him. 

Of course John Watson was there too, but Sherlock didn’t let  _ him _ get locked into a bloody experimental lab full of god knows what in god knows how many vials and petri dishes. No, John had been with Sherlock a floor up, probably helping the mad bastard set off what was meant to be a mild explosion but had turned out to be rather a  _ large _ explosion. 

The thing about secret labs is that no amount of card-swipe locks, biometric sensors or armed guards will save glass from shattering when all the ceiling tiles come shaking down from above.

Greg lets his head fall back against the plush sofa he’s sitting on, in this fancy parlor in this weird safe house. When the ambulance had pulled up to the dreary cement block of a place - the sort of building that housed cubicle farms or something - Greg had thought for a moment that they were at some classified hospital. But inside, it was gorgeous. Straight out of a magazine spread. Mycroft, ushered from the ambulance to the door along with Greg by a team of hazmat-suited government medics, had explained that normally this place would be used to house a dignitary in the event of some extended threat or emergency. 

Greg’s just a tired old cop, but since he potentially got exposed to five or six mild-to-awful pathogens alongside maybe the nation’s fanciest man, here he is. 

Mycroft appears, a couple of plastic shopping bags in hand. 

“There is antimicrobial soap in here,” he says, holding one out. “There are several washrooms upstairs, stocked with other products and linens. But I’m told we should use it first.” 

Greg reaches for the bag and glances inside: a couple plastic bottles in that weird sickly-green color medical things often are, Greg’s brand of deodorant, his aftershave, the sensitive toothpaste he uses at home. 

“Do I want to know how your assistant knows what deodorant and aftershave I prefer?” 

Mycroft’s lips twitch. “I don’t know,  _ do _ you?” 

Greg blinks at him. That had been almost  _ cheeky.  _ “...no,” he says after a moment. 

“Very well,” says Mycroft. “I have my own bag, and there are now groceries in the kitchen. I shall see you back down here, unless you wish to go to sleep, in which case I wouldn’t blame you.”

Greg catches himself worrying at his lip with his teeth and forces himself to un-bite it. “Uh.” He shrugged. “I’m kind of wired, to be honest. And bloody starving.” 

Mycroft huffs - not quite a laugh, not quite a scoff - and nods. “Very well. I will see you down here for dinner. Do you… that is, I like to cook, and Anthea provided plenty of supplies. Would pasta suit?”

That’s a pleasant surprise. “I’m actually hopeless in the kitchen,” Greg says. “But I can chop things. I’ll help.”

Mycroft smiles, and it’s tentative but genuine. “Very well.”

  
  


***

  
  


Greg feels really weird about wandering downstairs half-naked with nothing but a bath sheet wrapped around his waist, but he certainly can’t put the scrubs the medics gave him back on. 

At least he feels actually  _ clean.  _ Once he and Mycroft stumbled from the smoking building, they’d had to wait around, encircled by government agents and panicking personnel, all standing a good distance away from them, until a hazard team arrived to erect a tent in which they had to strip - back to back, of course - and get hosed down with some sort of disinfectant. 

The chemical smell has been  _ awful.  _

Now Greg smells like the posh shower gel from the gorgeously appointed washroom, which he used after a good scrub with the antimicrobial soap. It’s smoky and citrusy, and he really likes it. Too bad he’s sure it’s way too expensive to get for his own flat. 

Which he won’t see for another two weeks,  _ Christ.  _

“Good thing I didn’t get a cat,” Greg says from the doorway of the kitchen, where he finds Mycroft lining up ingredients. 

Mycroft looks up from his task, then does a sharp double take.  _ “Oh!”  _

“Yeah…” Greg forces himself not to shrink back from the doorway. It’s fine, he doesn't care if Mycroft Holmes sees his greying chest hair and softening middle. He  _ doesn't.  _ “Um, looks like you had some spare kit, but… I don’t think…” 

“My things were in one of the bedrooms,” Mycroft explains. “Yours must be somewhere. Apologies, I should have—” 

“It’s fine,” Greg hurries to say. “I’ll… have a look around.”

“Do you require assistance?”

Greg shakes his head and backs out of the doorway. He feels  _ incredibly  _ awkward and inconveniently flustered. 

Mycroft had been in  _ pajamas.  _ Like, normal person ones. Soft flannel pants and a heather gray t-shirt. Greg had been able to see all the lines of his actual body. 

_ Jesus fuck. _

Two weeks. With the man he’s had an adolescent-style crush on for ten years. And now Greg knows exactly how lovely and pale and soft-looking the undersides of his forearms are. 

  
  


***

  
  


Greg finds a very nice bedroom with dark grey walls, a gorgeous, thick silvery-green rug, and a bed made with pale grey linens that looks like it would swallow him whole if he lay down on it. But his things aren’t there. Mycroft’s are: a garment bag hung over the door of an antique armoire, a pair of shining dress shoes tucked underneath, and a red plastic bag printed with a hazmat symbol, presumably stuffed with his scrubs. Greg had left his bag of scrubs in the bathroom where he’d showered. 

Next door to the bedroom with Mycroft’s things is a bathroom just as luxurious as the one Greg had used, and just as steamed-up. 

_ Mycroft Holmes was naked in here. _

Greg backs away and tells himself to get a grip. He checks across the hall.

_ Bingo.  _

Greg recognizes his beaten-up leather duffel at the foot of yet another sumptuous bed - this one done up in crisp white sheets and navy duvet. Some of Mycroft’s underlings must have been sent ahead to his flat while the disinfectant spraying was happening. 

Greg finds comfortable gym and lounge clothes, t-shirts, pants, socks, and a couple pairs of jeans in the bag, and when he checks the bedroom’s closet he finds a couple of his own button-down shirts and a pair of nice trousers hanging there. 

He changes quickly into soft cotton shorts and a t-shirt. He can’t remember if Mycroft had shoes on. 

_ What if I see his bare feet? _

Greg rolls his eyes at himself. After a quick dash to grab his bag of toiletries out of the bathroom he’d used for his shower, he stashes it in the one attached to his bedroom, puts on some deodorant, and steels himself to go and make small talk over pasta. 

  
  


***

  
  


Mycroft is dropping little clumps of dried pasta into a boiling pot when Greg gets back to the kitchen. He isn’t wearing shoes - Greg checks - just soft-looking thick socks. 

He looks… really soft all over, actually. And tired. Like he could use a hug. 

“I normally like to make my own,” Mycroft says without looking up from where he’s poking the pasta down into the water. “But it’s late, and I know we’re both famished.”

“Yeah,” Greg ventures, sliding into the kitchen. 

“If you would prefer a different bedroom, there are four in the house.”

“No, no.” Greg steps tentatively closer. “The one they - Anthea? - dropped my stuff in is really nice. Nicer than my flat, that’s for sure. Can I help?”

“It’s likely that Anthea delegated the retrieval and delivery of our personal effects.” Mycroft looks up from the pasta water and blinks at Greg like he’s already forgotten he’s there, surprised by his physical presence in the kitchen. His eyes flick down and then back up. 

Greg fights the urge to wiggle his bare toes under the scrutiny. 

Mycroft clears his throat. “I’m— I thought carbonara would be easiest.” 

“Okay,” Greg says. “What can I do?”

Mycroft has him chop up some thin-sliced pancetta and grate some parmesan. Mycroft takes care of separating a couple of eggs after Greg tries and smashes the shell to bits. 

“Told you I’m hopeless in the kitchen,” Greg says ruefully. 

Mycroft twitches a smile. “Quite alright,” he says. “Here, if you could whisk these with the cheese, I’ll pay attention to the pan.”

There’s a comfortable silence while they do that. 

After a moment, Mycroft asks, “Did your wife do most of the cooking, then?”

Greg blinks down at the swirl of eggs and cheese. Mycroft’s long-fingered hand appears in order to tip a tiny pile of salt and pepper into it. “Ex-wife,” he corrects absently. “No, not really. She could do a decent breakfast, but then, so can I. We relied on takeaway too often, or ready made meals. I’m surprised you have time to cook.”

“I rarely do,” Mycroft says as he removes the sizzling meat from the burner. He casually scoots Greg to one side, a hand to his hip to show him where he needs to go so Mycroft can reach into a cabinet for the colander. “But I learned when I first left university and had to live on my own without the benefit of a cook or dining hall.” 

Greg watches Mycroft set aside a cup of the water before he smoothly removes the pot from the stove and dumps the water out through the colander. 

“What was it you said about a cat earlier?” 

It takes Greg a moment to figure out what he means. “Oh, right,” he says. “I was thinking out loud.” 

_ I was nervous to be standing around effectively naked in front of you and I blurted out the first thing that came to mind.  _

“The plates are in the cabinet to the right of the sink,” Mycroft says. “We’ll need them momentarily.”

Greg retrieves them and watches, a bit fascinated, as Mycroft throws the pasta into the pan with the pancetta, flicks the burner back on, and stirs. 

“I was thinking about getting a cat recently,” Greg says while he observes Mycroft’s elegant movements. “Guess it’s good I didn’t. Don’t know who would care for it while I’m gone.” 

“Hmm.” Mycroft adds the cup of pasta water back in and stirs some more. 

“You make this look very easy,” Greg murmurs.

“I have a cat,” Mycroft says, shrugging off the praise. “My staff will see to her while we’re here. Her name is Mademoiselle, though I call her Maddie. I did  _ not _ name her. And this  _ is  _ easy. Hand me the egg mixture, please?”

Greg does, and then takes the proffered set of tongs without thinking. “Er… what do I do with these?”

“I’m going to pour,” Mycroft says. “You stir.” 

“Who named her, then?”

“The young girl who owned her before I did.” 

A moment later, Greg is holding the plates so Mycroft can twist perfect little mountains of creamy spaghetti onto them, adding a sprinkle of grated cheese on top. 

“Lovely,” Greg says, and Mycroft smiles - a real one, not the twitchy one or the smirk - over the plates. 

“Kitchen table, I think,” Mycroft says after a moment. “There is a formal dining room, but—” 

“Could be nice,” Greg says, already moving toward the little butcher block kitchen table. “Two blokes in their pyjamas at a table for twelve? We could light the candelabras.”

Mycroft chuckles as they sit. “Maybe next time. We have a lot of meals to go before we can leave.”

Greg sighs. “Yeah, that’s true.” He twirls a bite of pasta around his fork. “Any idea if we’ll get our phones back soon?”

Mycroft shrugs a shoulder and takes a bite with a satisfied hum. “There really is no situation upon which carbohydrates and cheese can’t improve.” 

Stifling a surprised laugh, Greg raises his eyebrows and takes his own bite. It’s fantastic. “Wow,” he says, hand up in front of his mouth. 

“Indeed.”

They eat in silence, and Greg itches to break it. This situation is maybe the one chance he has at getting a real conversation out of Mycroft Holmes. But he doesn't know where to begin. They’ve already said more words to each other today than they ever have before - at least, words  _ not _ about Sherlock. Greg remembers a long chat many, many years ago in the St. Bart’s A&E waiting room, but… It’s been silent for too long. He needs to say  _ something.  _

“Are you going to be able to work from here?”

Mycroft looks up from his half-empty plate. “Minimally,” he says. “The communications set-up isn’t robust enough for more than monitoring from afar, really. Security is excellent, but this place is not approved to house my work files or computer. I’ll have to do what I can over the phone.”

Greg takes in the pinch at the corners of Mycroft’s eyes. “That’s gonna drive you nuts, isn’t it?”

Mycroft smiles, and the pinch turns to sweet little crow’s feet. “Most likely,” he says. “I’ll be terrible company.”

Greg can’t help smiling back. “Eh, we’ll see about that.” 

  
  


***

  
  


They’re both exhausted. Greg doesn't know what Mycroft’s day was like before they both landed at a research center chasing after Sherlock, but he knows his own had been hectic and he hadn’t slept well the night before. He’d bet that Mycroft operates on a Sherlock-style rest schedule - maybe a more sane version - and works late a lot, but from the way he keeps yawning… 

“I can clean up the kitchen,” Greg says, collecting their plates and water glasses from the table. “You look knackered.” 

Mycroft hums, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “I am, but I won’t leave you to deal with it alone.”

Greg doesn't argue, because Mycroft comes over to the sink and stands very close to him, dish towel in hand waiting to dry what Greg washes. 

He smells really good. 

Greg is deeply ashamed of himself; this is pathetic, really. Maybe he’s just tired. God knows he’s lonely, primed to be compromised by the woody, masculine scent of whatever aftershave Mycroft’s wearing. 

He needs to distract himself. Say something. Make conversation.

“So,” he says. “You ever been married?”

_ Why couldn’t he have asked something neutral? Why, why, why? _

Mycroft doesn't so much as cast him a sideways glance. He only takes the first freshly washed plate from Greg and sets about drying it, head cocked to the side. “Why do you ask?”

Greg shrugs, and keeps his eyes on his task. “We’re going to be here together for a couple of weeks. May as well get to know each other - though I bet you had me thoroughly vetted when I met Sherlock.”

“That was over ten years ago,” Mycroft says. “And it was merely a security check.”

Greg risks a look out of the corner of his eye, but Mycroft’s not looking at him. “Alright, well. Have you ever been married?”

“Not legally, no,” Mycroft replies. He lifts his right hand. “This is my uncle’s ring. I inherited it. Before you ask.”

“Not legally,” Greg repeats. “What’s that mean?”

“It means I lived for a very long time with a man, and the relationship ended before a marriage was legally possible.” 

Greg’s surprised at the honest answer, given without a pause. He’s not sure if he should say sorry - for prying, or for the break up, or for homophobic laws, or what. “How long ago did that end?” 

“Oh,” Mycroft appears to think as he dries a drinking glass. “Well, I suppose it has been almost twenty years. Andrew and I lived together from 1992 until 2001.” 

“92,” Greg says, hands pausing in the suds. “You would’ve been young.” 

“Not really,” Mycroft replies. “Twenty four.” 

“I thought—” Greg shakes his head, hands off the washed colander. “Dunno why I always thought you were so much younger than me. 

“Three years,” Mycroft supplies. “How much younger did you think I was?” 

“At least five years,” Greg says. All that’s left to clean is the pan. Greg finds himself glad that it will need a bit of scrubbing. Let them talk some more. “But it doesn't matter. Twenty four is still young, in my opinion. I was thirty before I even considered getting married.” 

“I was a bit of a romantic,” Mycroft says, then laughs at Greg’s surprised face. “I’m not joking; I was.”

“You’re not anymore?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Do I seem like a romantic now?”

Greg hands him the clean pan and watches him dry it. “Dunno,” he says. “Guess I’ll have to get to know you better.” 

“I suppose you will,” says Mycroft, as he sets the pan in the drying rack. 

  
  



	2. Something's Got A Hold On Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You all SHOWED UP for this, oh my GOD! I'm so excited! Excited enough that I feel real good about updating a second day in a row! Thanks for your lovely comments, friends! I'm glad you're all feelin' the fluff. I believe my exact words to Paia yesterday were: "I'm gonna go JUST as hard for cuteness as I did for Daddy kink in September!" 
> 
> Take my hand friends, and let's go!

In the morning, Greg’s in no mood to get dressed just to sit around all day, so he doesn't. He’s surprised when he finds Mycroft at the kitchen table, also still in his night clothes, with a pot of tea and a selection of pastries laid out in a bakery box. He looks up from the mobile in his hand and waves across the table at the box waiting there. 

“Our mobiles were destroyed,” Mycroft says. “They couldn’t sterilize them thoroughly enough to give them back. Anthea arranged replacements and dropped them off with breakfast.”

“Oh,” Greg says, still blinking sleep out of his eyes. “Cool.” 

“Tea?”

Greg nods and drops down into the chair across from Mycroft, who pours him a cuppa. “Thanks. This phone is _much_ fancier than the one I lost.”

“You may as well get something out of this mess, hm?”

Greg doesn't know what to say to that, still foggy with sleep and feeling the slight ache of having had a falling ceiling tile glance off his shoulder the day before. He drinks his tea and sighs contentedly into the cup. “This is a perfect cup of tea,” he murmurs. 

Mycroft chuckles. “I do try.”

Greg opens his eyes and takes in Mycroft’s hair - combed, but no product - and his freckles and wrists and elbows. It’s a lot. Without a suit or even the decency of long sleeves, there’s a lot more skin on display, and also nothing to distract from what he _actually_ looks like. Maybe that only makes sense in Greg’s head right now, but…

 _Cute,_ he thinks. _Touchable._

“So,” he says, trying to rev up his brain and get out of the pit of helpless attraction he’s falling into. “What do we do while we’re here? Jigsaw puzzles? Board games? Could we get Anthea to bring us a gaming system?”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow at him. “Do you play video games?”

“Never,” Greg says. “When would I have time? But we’re going to have hours to fill, so…” 

“I shall inquire about a gaming system,” Mycroft says, mildly. He locks his phone screen and sets it down, turning his attention to the danish waiting on a plate by his elbow. 

Greg chooses one for himself and eats it over his cupped hand rather than get up for a plate. He watches Mycroft watch him do it, and raises his own eyebrows in a silent dare for him to say something about it. 

Mycroft’s lips twitch, but he says nothing, just continues to tear bits off his own breakfast, popping them into his mouth. He leans back in his chair and narrows his eyes a bit at Greg, but not in the scary Holmesian way - that doesn’t really work when the Holmes in question is wearing pyjamas and eating pastry with his hands. 

“Do you like films?” Mycroft asks after a brief study of Greg across the table. 

“Who doesn't?” Greg shrugs. “I like pretty much anything. Might surprise you to know that I watch period dramas to switch off my head most of the time.”

“Oh?”

“Mmhmm. You?”

Mycroft leans forward, elbows on the table and hands clasped loosely. “Guess,” he says, with a playful little quirk of his brow.. 

Greg grins. This is _delightful._ Mycroft Holmes, bit of a scamp, maybe. “Hmmm,” Greg stalls. “Well. I’m sure most spy films and political dramas would drive you batty with the inaccuracies.” 

“Correct.”

“I bet it’s not comedies, or anything really obvious, like… like art films or silent movies. But I bet it’s very classic, somewhere in that vein.” Greg tilts his head back and forth, thinking, sitting back with his arms crossed thoughtfully over his chest. “Am I allowed to interview you, gather evidence?”

Mycroft smiles. “I will allow two questions.” 

“Only two?” Greg feigns distress at this. “Alright. You drive a hard bargain. D’you like old films or new films?”

“Old, mostly.” 

“Hm. Okay. You hate the theater, so it’s not musicals.”

Mycroft perks up at that. “How would you know that I hate the theater?” 

Greg laughs. “I can’t name my sources, sorry.” He says, “Black and white films?” 

“Very good.” 

“So…” Greg bites his lip and thinks. “I’d guess all those snappy, smart Katherine Hepburn ones. _Philadelphia Story_ and the like.” 

“Interesting,” Mycroft says. “I do like that one, but alas - not my favorite genre.”

Greg sighs, holds up his hands in defeat. “Well, I gave it my best shot. Gonna tell me?”

Mycroft’s smile grows by degrees. “Detective films,” he says, and it’s pitched low, satisfied. “Those are my favorite.”

_Jesus._

Greg has to reach for another pastry. He can’t go anywhere soon - just hearing Mycroft say that in that tone with that smile has him half hard, and these shorts aren’t going to hide that. 

_I’m going to have bright blue balls by the end of this. Shit._

  
  


***

  
  


After tea and pastries, Mycroft wanders away. Apparently there’s an office here, and while he can’t use his sensitive government computer, Anthea made sure he had _something,_ and he tells Greg he can do a lot just with Google, conference calling, and text messages. 

“Hey,” Greg says, “no need to convince me. You and Sherlock could probably start a war with a phone book and an iPod. See you back here later?” 

Mycroft snorts. “A phone book and an iPod,” he muses. “If only. Ah - yes. I’ll see you soon enough. The lounge downstairs has a smart television and, I believe, accounts with several streaming services. I think there is a gym down there, too. You can obviously go wherever you like in the house, nothing here is off limits to either of us.” 

“Great,” Greg says. “Thanks.” 

Mycroft seems to hover in the doorway for a moment before he leaves, and Greg finds that awkwardness really endearing. He shakes himself and decides to check his bedroom for his trainers. He may as well run off some energy in that gym Mycroft mentioned. 

  
  


***

  
  


After he’s run a few miles on the treadmill, pumping his favorite jogging playlist through the bluetooth system in the gym, Greg takes a scalding hot shower in the ridiculous loo attached to his bedroom. Every shower in this place is a glass cube with at least two showerheads, and this one has jets in the wall as well. There’s a huge soaking tub that he’ll have to get acquainted with later - he tells himself to take it slow; he has two weeks. If he does all the stupidly decadent things now, it’ll be old hat before the first week’s even out. Where would be the fun in that?

Showered and dressed in a pair of jeans and an old charity run t-shirt (who picked these clothes? And can Greg ask for more? This won’t last two weeks), Greg goes down into the sunken lounge, which is bigger than his entire flat. 

It’s one huge, u-shaped sectional sofa of overstuffed, soft, grey suede, plus a bunch of nesting tables, a little armchair in the corner next to a reading lamp, and along the far wall a hulking set of shelves surround an ungodly large television. This room is modern, at least compared to the antique opulence in the front sitting room, the formal dining room, even the bedrooms. It’s still fancy to an obnoxious degree, but Greg is instantly more comfortable in here than he’s been in any other room of the safe house. 

He’s pleasantly wrung out from the cardio and the shower, so he indulges the impulse to launch himself over the back of the sofa, landing in a flop of limbs on the mega-plush cushions, where he wriggles and luxuriates in the way he sinks into it, the way the back cushions cradle him. 

“Could get used to this,” he sighs, and then nearly jumps out of his skin when he hears Mycroft’s voice. 

“That was interesting.” 

Greg struggles to sit up - the sofa is that deeply pillowy - and spots Mycroft in the doorway to the room. “Saw that, did you?”

“I was about to alert you to my presence,” Mycroft says, a little half smile playing at his lips. “But then you took off.” 

“It’s fun,” Greg says - he isn’t embarrassed. He’s fifty and just ran a 5k and vaulted a gigantic sofa, what does he have to be embarrassed about? “You should try it.” 

“I’ll pass,” Mycroft says, bland as you please. “How is the gym?”

“It’s really nice! I only used one of the treadmills, but it has everything you could want.” 

“You run?”

“Yup.” 

Mycroft’s smile grows, both sides of his lips turning up now. “So do I.” 

Greg smiles back. This is what he would call ‘an in.’ “Well in that case, you could join me next time. Bet you’re faster than me. I slog through.” 

Mycroft shakes his head. “I doubt that,” he says, then seems to bite his tongue. He clears his throat. “A film is next on the agenda?”

“Maybe,” Greg says. “You finished with work?”

“Until about four.” Mycroft steps further into the room, making his way down the short set of stairs into the lounge. “I have to sit in on a call at that time. Anthea will have it in hand, but I will need to know exactly what is said, so it can’t be helped.” 

“S’only noon,” Greg says, going for casual. “Want to watch _The Philadelphia Story_ with me?”

Mycroft, now practically leaning over the back of the sofa to look at Greg, shrugs. “I don’t have much else to do.” 

Greg gets that it’s meant as a joke. As a _tease?_ Hm. He grins and reaches for the TV remote where it sits beside a decorative bowl full of weird, fussy little wicker shapes. He gestures to the gigantic sofa. “Jump over, it’s fun.”

Mycroft snorts, but does not take the suggestion. He rounds the sectional and plants himself on one of the far ends. “Try Amazon,” he says. “It’s probably available there.”

  
  


***

  
  


They spend £8 on the film, and a lovely two hours watching in companionable quiet. 

When it’s over, Mycroft sighs, obviously pleased. “It only gets better on further viewings.”

“Yeah,” Greg agrees. “C. Dexter Haven.”

Mycroft chuckles. “I’m shocked it’s not Tracy Lord, for you.”

“If you aren’t well aware of my preferences, I’ll be shocked,” Greg says, surprising himself with his own directness. 

“Certainly,” says Mycroft smoothly, “but Katherine Hepburn is very much your type.”

Greg thinks about it for a moment. “Yeah, you’re probably right,” he says. “My ex was like that. Snappy. Smart. Shooting way above my station, really.”

Mycroft gives a little huff. “I don’t agree, there.”

“No?” Greg files it away for later and considers Mycroft. 

Greg’s laid out along the center piece of the sofa, propped up on a pile of throw pillows. Mycroft remains perched on the seat at the end of the ‘u’ shape. He’d gotten a bit more comfortable during the film, but he’s clearly not the sort of person who _lounges_ much. Mycroft observes Greg observing him, and waits. 

Greg wants to say something flip and sexy like, _‘Would it be shooting above my station to try it on with you?’_ or _‘Tell me more about how much you disagree.’_ or even just _‘Really? You up for it?’_

Instead, he reaches for the remote. “Wanna watch _Vertigo_ next?”

Mycroft smiles. “One of my favorites,” he says quietly, and nods. 

  
  


***

  
  


That night, after they’ve made supper and eaten it together before doing the washing up side by side again, this time chatting about siblings - Sherlock as a child, what Greg’s older sister’s job as a nurse is like - they find themselves sinking into the plush sofa with glasses of pricey scotch in hand. 

Greg sits curled in the corner, one leg drawn up and the other stretched out toward Mycroft, who is tucked up against the arm at the end of the sofa. 

“You know,” Greg says. “This isn’t a hardship at all. Sort of a vacation, really.”

Mycroft sighs. “It’s certainly not a hardship,” he says. “But I shudder to think of the pile of work that will be waiting for me at the end.”

“Ugh.” Greg shakes his head. “Don’t remind me.”

“Still,” Mycroft continues, “the company is good.” 

Greg smiles at him and wonders if now’s the time to say something suggestive. There’s something here, he _knows_ there is. It doesn't even surprise him. There’s a reason he has a thing for Mycroft. There’s something about him that has told Greg, in small doses over the years, that they would get along. That it would be exciting and interesting to actually know him as a person. And he’s always hoped, of course, that if they ever got under each other’s clothes, it would be a resounding success. 

It’s always fun with the smart snappy ones, Greg knows from experience. 

Before he can say anything, the magic of the low-lit lounge and their matching soft smiles is ruined by the trill of Mycroft’s phone. 

“Christ,” Mycroft grunts, digging in his pocket - he’s half-suited today, waistcoat and tie but no jacket and in his socked feet. “This can only be a complete cock up if she’s calling this late.”

Greg swallows a laugh. “I’ll leave you to it,” he says. “Don’t go off to the office. Stay comfy. I’m going to read in bed for a bit, I think.” 

Mycroft nods, mouthing a _thank you_ as he lifts his mobile to his ear. “Go,” he says to the person on the other end of the line. Anthea, Greg guesses. 

“Thanks for dinner,” Greg stage whispers, and takes himself to his room. 

  
  


***

  
  


He leaves his bedroom door open, just a bit. It feels weird to close himself off when he isn’t sleeping. If Mycroft finishes up his call quickly, Greg’s open to more chatting, or another film. So he leaves it open, and cracks the spine of the paperback some lackey or other had thoughtfully tossed in the overnight bag with his clothes. 

Greg’s had it on his night table for months, never having the time or energy to actually read it. 

Mycroft’s call goes long, and Greg is hours and nearly half the book in when the man passes by his door. 

“Off to bed?” Greg calls, and Mycroft draws up short, taking half a step back. 

He catches himself on the doorway and leans there. “Yes, I think,” he says. “Good book?”

Greg glances at it. He can’t remember, suddenly, what the hell he’s been reading. “Er… yeah, I think.” 

“Crime novel?”

Greg snorts. “Historical fiction,” he corrects. “I never get to read, but when I do, I don’t want it to have a single thing to do with work.” 

“Costume dramas and historical novels,” Mycroft muses. “Interesting.”

“Is it?”

Mycroft shrugs. “Perhaps it is. You’re wearing reading glasses.”

Greg winces behind the black frames. “Oh… yeah. Afraid my eyes are aging. Started going around the time the last hair went grey.”

“They - and the hair - suit you,” Mycroft says, then abruptly backs out of the doorway. “Goodnight, Greg.”

Greg opens his mouth to say goodnight, but Mycroft is already across the hall, ducking into his own room. 

He sighs. He used to be good at this. Flirting. Finding the ‘in.’ 

That’s about as sharp as his eyesight, these days. 

  
  


***

  
  


He’s restless, despite putting his book and glasses aside and flicking off the lamp just after Mycroft goes to his own room. 

It’s impossible not to think - hope - that there’s something happening. But they’re trapped in this house for another twelve days at least. If Greg tries to test the waters now and it backfires? The rest of their time here will be miserable. 

Still…

Mycroft is really adorable first thing in the morning, in his nightclothes. And even after they had parted ways for the day, and he’d shown up again somewhat armored again in his nice clothes, he had still looked softer. More… touchable. 

Greg huffs and flops onto his back. He glances at the half-open door to his room. He could get up and close it. 

But. 

He’s been single since his divorce four years ago. The last time he got laid was more than six months ago, and it hadn’t been all that memorable. Some nice woman his sister had set him up with. It’s been… wow, a decade and a half since he’s been with a man. 

And now there is a man, just across the hall, who Greg has been inappropriately attracted to since he was still married. And he’s a gay man. And he’s… 

Greg sighs again, heavier this time. He’s driving Greg round the bend, and it’s only been just over twenty-four hours. 

_Fuck._

Greg’s half hard even now, and the thought of reaching down into his pants hasn’t even formally crystallized in his mind. 

Well, now it has. 

It’s like… it’s like a holdover from when Greg was a young idiot with zero sense of self-preservation and a sex drive that over-rode literally everything else. 

He suddenly really wants to get himself off with the door open, and Mycroft Holmes just one hallway — six feet or so of open air — and a single door away. 

He does it. Shifts around in bed, slips his hand beneath his waistband, and touches himself. He sighs. 

The first time he met Mycroft in person wasn’t a happy or nice story. A twenty-three year old Sherlock had just overdosed, and Greg at thirty-four had been over-stressed trying to vie for DI while also trying to impregnate his increasingly frustrated wife. 

But the second time… the second time, just half a year later, Greg had learned of the first infidelity just weeks before, and was feeling rather raw and reckless, and he’d spotted the long, tall elegant man at the edge of his crime scene and not recognized him at first. To be fair, Mycroft had been half-awake and fully mad with fear of his brother’s demise last time Greg’d lain eyes on him. But that second time, he was fully kitted out in a gorgeous suit, and he was giving someone what-for on his mobile, held tightly against his ear. He’d been blazing with fury and tightly contained. 

Greg had thought: _I bet you’d let me swallow your cock in those public toilets over there. Bet you’d—_

And then he’d stopped himself, horrified that he’d thought such a thing. He was a _married man._

Another two seconds, and the posh stunner was off the phone and looking in Greg’s direction, and recognition had crashed in like morning sun through the curtains when you have a hangover and want to pretend you don’t exist. 

He’d been thinking impure thoughts about Sherlock’s brother while standing just a few metres away from him. And the worst part was, something about _that_ made Greg’s spine go even tighter with a sudden shock of arousal. 

Things had been pretty rocky in Greg's psyche for a while, til just after the divorce. Something about the harshness of the situation with Tracy, the infertility that she insisted was his fault, the cheating - which would become chronic after that first incident - and the cold way she’d started to talk to him… he’d felt a bit twisted and awful, and while he never cheated on her, he’d found himself wanting to, and imagining the most seedy scenarios in which to do it. Getting off on the fantasy of it. 

In the present, Greg sighs and palms himself inside his underwear. That’s not what he wants anymore. Seedy, sleazy encounters hold no appeal. After the split from Tracy he’d tried it a couple of times, and hated it. He isn’t built for it. What he wants now… 

Well, he’d like to watch a film with someone all curled up together and then maybe trade lazy oral sex. Or clean up the dinner dishes before doing something breathless against the bench. He wants passion that comes from knowing someone, and the sweet awkwardness that happens before that, when you know you really like them. 

He’s fully hard just thinking about those things, with _anyone,_ but he can so easily place Mycroft Holmes in the role of the other person. It’s not just proximity. It’s a long-held crush, built over years and made up of dozens of short interactions, passing by one another on the way in and out of Baker Street, occasionally cooperating on cases, and standing shoulder to shoulder at the edges of an unbelievable number of Sherlockian disasters. 

Greg takes himself more firmly in hand. He’s thought about it a lot, what Mycroft would be like outside of those contexts. Greg’s caught glimpses of wry humor and a soft-eyed adoration for a little brother, so he knows Mycroft isn’t the ice man his reputation paints him as. But the last twenty-four hours or so have been a gift basket of new information. Mycroft’s been in love before. He was practically married. He brought up films, and needed no convincing to watch one with Greg. He didn’t relax much, but Greg would bet that was just nerves. He can imagine Mycroft relaxed at home. He hasn’t a clue what Mycroft’s home looks like, but he can make it up in his head, something classic and warm, lots of wood and leather, maybe some tartan, who knows. 

Mycroft would probably lounge there, wouldn’t he? Everyone does that, even incredibly posh civil servants. Everyone relaxes in their own home.

Would he be the sort to like a soft blanket, or is his tendency to wander the safe house in socked feet something that happens at home, too? Does he cuddle his cat? 

Greg winces at himself. Some masturbatory fantasy. A soft man in fuzzy socks holding a cat. 

_But you want that,_ he reminds himself. _You want all that, too._

Greg wonders what it would be like, sitting hip-to-hip with Mycroft. He wonders if he likes to lean on someone, likes to hold or be held. He wonders what sort of kisser he is. 

He strokes himself idly, and imagines that Mycroft is probably a really thorough kisser. Probably good with his hands, too, twisting them into his partner’s hair, running his fingers down their neck. Greg tends to cling, likes to hold the person he’s kissing as close as he can. Mycroft’s just slightly taller than Greg. What would _that_ be like?

He imagines tumbling down onto the plush sofa - the one here that he can actually picture, not the one he’s made up for Mycroft’s theoretical flat, or the cheap horrible one at Greg’s. He could push Mycroft down on it, slide into his lap. Mycroft might look surprised, might go flushed with anticipation. Greg could mess up his hair with his hands. 

He’s really hard now, and he’s started stroking himself in earnest, hips hitching gently into his own grip. 

He’d want… he’d want it to get a little frantic, right? He could nip at Mycroft’s mouth, or down his throat. Or Mycroft could tip him onto his back and hold him down and have his way, say all sorts of naughty things in Greg’s ear in that low purr of his. 

Greg gasps and speeds his hand. “Fuck,” he breathes. 

He loves kissing, loves fooling around aimlessly. Orgasms, yeah, and really deep, reckless fucking, that’s also a favorite, but. It’s more fun if there’s a good build up. A little desperation by the time they get there. Greg wonders if Mycroft likes that. Who doesn't, right? Who doesn't want to just roll around for a bit? 

Mycroft’s really buttoned-up and everything, but Greg bets he looks amazing all tousled and rumpled. He bets his lips get all puffy and his skin all red from stubble burn. 

And that does it. Greg is completely caught off guard - he hasn’t even dredged up any really interesting images yet - but that’s the one that knocks him off his axis and has him seizing up in shocked pleasure, coming into his own cupped hand. 

_“Oh!”_ He shouts it, not meaning to, and quickly bites his own tongue. He hopes Mycroft’s asleep. He should have closed the door, what was he _thinking?_

He’d been thinking he might not be into sleazy these days, but clearly he’s still the sort of person who likes a little risk. 

His orgasm has him twitching and gasping for a while, and then it’s time for an awkward walk to his en suite to clean himself up. 

He shuts his bedroom door, feeling pretty sheepish, and collapses into sleep the moment his head touches the pillow.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little spiciness for old Greggers there :D


	3. Wouldn't It Be Nice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going rogue and posting this VERY soon after the previous chapter, so if you haven't read chapter two yet, scoot back to that one!

Things seem fine over breakfast, so Greg assumes Mycroft didn’t hear. _Thank god._

The day is much like the one before. They eat breakfast - toast and eggs this time. Greg makes the toast and Mycroft rolls his eyes at how hopeless Greg is at cracking eggs - and chat, then Mycroft has to go deal with work things. 

Greg isn’t up for another long run, so he goes poking around the house. There’s a cellar, mostly wine, and an attic-like storage space, empty. There’s his bedroom and Mycroft’s, and the other two, which aren’t interesting in the least. There’s the office Mycroft’s working in, door closed for the moment, and another with a big gleaming conference table. Greg rolls his eyes. He let Mycroft’s people handle work for him, so who knows what the Met’s been told. He’s glad they don’t know about this set-up, or he might have been expected to work while here. 

There’s not much else. The gym is back behind the lounge, and there’s a library tucked back there too, full of all sorts of old and new books, and a nice little antique writing desk. 

Greg’s sorry to say he’s not really the type for handwritten correspondence, but part of him sort of wishes he was. This place might look like a business park from the outside, but inside it’s practically a manor house. Very Jane Austen in the library, in particular. 

“It’s too bad we couldn’t be taken somewhere with an outdoor element,” he says to Mycroft over lunch. “No safe houses out in the country? Or the seaside?”

Mycroft chuckles over his soup. “There are,” he says. “But it was safer to bring us here. Closer. Apologies.”

“Well,” Greg says, “next time we get exposed to several pathogens in an explosion, it’d be nice if you could take me somewhere a bit more outdoorsy. Please take note.”

“Oh, of course,” Mycroft replies easily. “Consider it noted.”

It’s funny, how easy it is to _be_ funny with Mycroft. How Mycroft takes it in stride and gives back humor of his own. 

“You have a nice smile,” Greg blurts, then quickly decides he’s finished with his soup and clears his dish to the sink so he doesn't have to look Mycroft in the face while he’s blushing. 

That turns into doing the washing up from the morning and from lunch preparations, and he’s just gotten himself under some semblance of control when Mycroft clears his throat from just beside and behind Greg’s shoulder. Greg steps aside to let him add his soup bowl to the sink. 

Mycroft hovers there for a second, awkward in the way he holds himself. He clears his throat again. 

“You also have a very nice smile,” he says, genuine but with a wry little tease, and then he’s gone to the office again. 

  
  


***

  
  


Anthea shows up between lunch and supper, and leaves them more of their things from home, plus a huge box full of video games and two different systems on which to play them. 

The arrival defuses the tension Greg’s been holding while he waited for Mycroft to reappear from the office. 

“You actually asked for an Xbox!” 

Mycroft, holding said Xbox in his hands, chuckles. “I did. I wanted to see what she would do with that request.”

Greg holds up a new-in-box Nintendo Switch. “Well!” 

“She’s very thorough,” Mycroft says, and sets aside the Xbox to go through the games stacked several deep in the box. “We have enough here to last the _year,_ I think. Lord.” 

“You’re going to play video games with me,” Greg says, not making it a question. “Oh, it’ll be fun. Are we allowed to order takeaway?”

“Yes,” Mycroft says, distracted with trying to figure out what all the cords are for. “We need to route it through my staff, and they will leave it on the doorstep. What did you have in mind?”

“Something awful, of course,” Greg says. He holds out his hand. “I think I can figure out the hook ups. You decide what to order. It just has to be really bad for us. Also, beer would be helpful.”

Mycroft snorts. “Oh dear. You’re going to corrupt my tastebuds.”

“Yup,” Greg chirps. “Off you pop. Ask for some caffeine other than coffee, too. Coke or something. Tonight, we dine like my fifteen year old nephew.”

  
  


***

  
  


The best part is, Mycroft really commits to it. They eat greasy crisps and tons of Chinese food in their lounge clothes, and after a few minutes flipping through the options and using Youtube to figure out how the hell to set up both systems, they mutually agree to a silly competition game on the Switch. 

Ten minutes in, as Greg’s Mega Man knocks Mycroft’s Peach off the platform, Mycroft laughs, full and loud. 

“You said that you never play video games,” he accuses, elbow knocking into Greg’s. 

“Well,” Greg shrugs. “I have nieces and nephews, I’m not a complete philistine.” 

Mycroft snorts and shakes his head. “I’ll get you this time.”

He does, actually, and is very pleased with himself as he takes a break for more noodles while Greg looks through some of the other games. 

“What’s that one?” Mycroft asks while Greg’s reading about one on his phone. 

“You make an island in this one,” Greg says. “Just one player, but we could collaborate?”

“That sounds lovely,” Mycroft says. 

“I’m texting my nieces about it. I think they have this one.”

An hour later they’ve created a little person in Sherlock’s image and haven’t even begun actually playing the game. 

“Lily says we can be friends with her in this game. Says Callie’s on there too.” 

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. “Lily and Callie?”

“I know,” Greg half-groans, reaching for a dumpling with his chopsticks. “My sister was young when she had the twins and Callie-Lily seemed adorable and delightful at the time.”

“Mmm,” Mycroft hums thoughtfully. “It isn’t the worst name-related sin I can think of. Mycroft. Sherlock. Eurus.”

Greg barks a laugh. “Well, there is that.”

“How many are there, in total?”

“Oh, my sister’s kids?”

“Yes.”

“Just the twins and Henry,” Greg says. “The girls are seventeen, Henry’s fifteen.” 

“You are a doting uncle,” Mycroft guesses - deduces, or maybe already knows. 

“Oh yeah,” Greg says. “I always loved kids. I was thrilled when Laura had the girls. My ex… well. We tried, and then gave up, and then tried again a few times. It was right around the second time we decided not to try for a while that Laura got pregnant. It was tense in my house at the time, but I was excited beyond reason. My baby sister, a mum? I loved that. Her husband was great, too. Gorgeous family. I’m proud of her. Of them. Yeah.” Greg hides his face in his drinking glass, a little embarrassed at himself. He can’t seem to rein it in when it comes to talking about them.

“Your brother in law is deceased, though.”

“Yeah, cancer.”

“I’m sorry.”

Greg sighs, “Well, it was just after Sherlock. It was a bad year.”

Mycroft winces, and it seems to happen with his entire body. “I’m _very_ sorry.”

Greg nudges him with his knee and sets down the carton of rice he’d started munching on without really noticing. “Don’t worry about it,” he says. “I’m not really upset with Sherlock about it anymore, so you’re definitely off the hook.”

Mycroft doesn't say anything to that. 

“Time for beer,” Greg decides out loud. “I’ll bring you one.”

  
  


***

  
  


Mycroft is terrifyingly good at first-person shooters, and he’s very smug about it. They take turns playing a multiplayer online war game, swapping the controller back and forth between rounds. Mycroft dies _far_ less frequently than does Greg, and his kill counts…

“You know,” Greg says. “Sherlock makes it sound like you’ve never so much as thought the word _gun_ in your life.”

Mycroft laughs, a good, real laugh again. “What Sherlock doesn't know about me could fill libraries,” he says, a touch of cockiness there. “No one in their right mind would choose to stay in fieldwork past the required interval.” 

“Sherlock seems to love it.”

“As I said, no one in their right mind.”

“Too true,” Greg concedes. 

Mycroft picks off another pixelated Russian soldier and says, “I was in the field from just out of University until I was twenty-five. Sherlock was too young to know about it, even vaguely, and was away at school at the time, anyway.” 

“How _in the field?”_ Greg wonders. “Like, how James Bond are we talking here?”

“Well, I’d tell you, but then…”

Greg laughs into his third beer. “Fair enough. So you quit to do… this?”

“Not quite,” Mycroft says, and the battle timer runs down to zero. He hands off the controller to Greg. “I left for Andrew, really. My ex. He… he hated it, really. And he only knew the half of it, _if_ that. I didn’t crave danger or particularly enjoy long term assignments out of the country. I like it here, in London, and wanted to be here permanently eventually, anyway. Keeping him happy by speeding along the progression of my career was something about which I had no qualms.”

Greg looks at him, taking in the slightly-buzzed set of his shoulders, a bit lopsided, his spine relaxed out of its usual straightness. He’s wearing argyle socks and grey joggers over his long, long legs, which are propped up on the nesting coffee tables. His hair is mussed from nervous fingers running through it while they tried to get the hang of the gaming controllers. He looks like a normal man. The sort who makes decisions based on what his boyfriend needs, and keeps things secret from his little brother just because it’s the normal thing to do.

“What caused the break up?” Greg wonders. “I mean— sorry, you don’t have to tell me that.” 

Mycroft shakes his head and takes a thoughtful sip of his beer - straight out of the bottle, because Greg had refused to bring glasses. “No, it’s quite alright. You won’t believe the answer.” 

“Try me.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “Very well. I wanted a child, and Andrew did not. I was thirty and wanted to begin thinking about adoption or… or whichever avenue seemed best, I suppose, and I hoped to accomplish that by the time I reached forty. Preferably much earlier.” 

Greg blinks. For some reason he believes it, instantly, he just hadn’t _expected_ it. “Oh.”

“I realize I don’t seem…” Mycroft waves a hand. “Perhaps I’m not the type. I might have been awful at it.” 

“No,” Greg says, meaning it. “No, you wouldn’t have.”

Mycroft shrugs. “I’ll never know. But suffice to say, the incompatibility was… insurmountable.” 

“You broke up with him?”

“No.” Mycroft’s long fingers pick at the label on his beer bottle. “The opposite. I would never have given him an ultimatum. It was… it was a heartbreak, I suppose, to let go of the idea of a child. But I was happy in my relationship. Andrew… Andrew felt he would only become a disappointment to me, in the long run. Someone to resent. He felt I should find someone who wanted the same things.”

“Why didn’t you?”

It’s a weirdly intimate conversation, fueled by sugar and artificial flavorings and a little alcohol. But Greg is fascinated and a little frightened by the strength of the affection he feels welling up behind his ribs. 

“I felt rather stupid, to be honest.” Mycroft drains his beer and sets the bottle on the table with a clunk. “It was a bad error on my part, not realizing sooner that we were at odds on such an important issue. And, to be honest, I was badly hurt by it all. I had no interest in committing to someone else.”

“And you didn’t try to adopt on your own, or?”

Mycroft smiles sadly. “It wasn’t something I wanted to do on my own. My vision for my future had included… well, him.”

“Fucking hell,” Greg sighs. “God, do I understand that.”

“I know you do,” Mycroft says. “Shall I get us two more of these?”

Greg hands him his empty bottle. “I think you had better.”

  
  


***

  
  


“What kind of name is _Andrew_ anyway?” Greg grouses a bit tipsily later, well after midnight. 

He’s half cocooned in the blanket from the back of the sofa, his feet pressed against Mycroft’s knee where it’s drawn up butterfly-style on the cushion. He’s playing a single player game full of dragons and politics and magic, and Greg’s been watching while they chat on and off through the opening scenes and tasks. 

“Bet his dumb parents named him after the bloody prince.” Greg scoffs. “He would’ve tried to name your kid something really awful. Like… _Albert.”_

Mycroft shakes with silent laughter, and Greg can see it _and_ feel it with his toes, even through the blanket. “His mother had an ungodly obsession with the Queen, yes,” he says. 

“What a dick,” Greg grouses. 

“I’m touched by your misplaced irritation,” Mycroft says, glancing away from sunset over Tamriel to grin at him. 

“Hey, you called my ex-wife a _trollope_ earlier.” Greg shrugs expansively. “So we’re even.”

Mycroft really had called Tracey a trollope not thirty minutes past, when Greg had commented that the Breton woman in the character creation screen reminded him of her. Mycroft had immediately decided to play as a Nord, and then made some very Shakespearean comments against Tracy’s character.

“I have a brilliant mind,” Mycroft says, a bit dreamily, as he aims his character across a field of fireflies. “You should trust my judgment without question.”

Greg’s eyes feel heavy. He wriggles his toes against Mycroft’s leg, scooting them underneath. “Yeah,” he sighs. “Well, I do.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone requested the names of the games so I'm adding them here!  
> -Smash Bros   
> -Animal Crossing   
> -Battlefield (probably 4)  
> -Skyrim


	4. And It's Getting Better All The Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sprinkles love dust on all of you*

Greg wakes in the early hours of the morning. 

“Whereyougoing?” He slurs, only realizing as he speaks that he was woken by Mycroft’s weight moving off the sofa. 

“It’s very late,” Mycroft says softly, setting the Xbox controller on the table. “I can’t believe how distracting the game was.” 

“How late?” Greg sits up, rubbing at his eyes. _Oof,_ he thinks. _Gonna pay for all this salt and sugar tomorrow._

“Past three,” Mycroft replies, a bit sheepish. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.” 

“S’alright,” Greg yawns. He extends his hand. “Haul me up, would you, my joints love this sofa until I have to get out of it.”

Mycroft chuckles lowly and obliges him, tugging Greg up by the hand and catching him by the elbows when he stumbles with sleepiness and residual drunkenness. 

“Sorry,” Greg mumbles, trying not to sway into the welcoming warmth he can feel radiating off Mycroft in waves. “Hope I wasn’t rude, I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“Rude?” Mycroft’s hands squeeze Greg’s arms gently. “No, of course not. I don’t remember the last time I had so much fun. University, at least.” 

Greg tips his face up to grin at him. He’s too out of it to care that he probably looks like he’s angling for a kiss. He’s not - though, he’s not an idiot, he’d take it if it was on offer. He’s just… comfortable. “Yeah, me too,” Greg says, and takes a bit of a risk by slipping his arms around Mycroft’s middle in a quick hug. “Thanks.”

“It was your idea,” Mycroft says, eyes a bit wide when they part, Greg taking extra steps back to get out of the man’s personal space before he goes and makes things weirder. 

“Doesn't matter,” Greg says nonsensically. “Okay,” he continues, “I’m old and need to collapse into bed, now. See you for breakfast in a bit?”

Mycroft’s response is a little delayed, but Greg’s already making his way round the sofa toward the little half staircase out of the lounge. 

“Right,” Mycroft says after a moment. “Yes, breakfast. See you then.”

  
  


***

  
  


Greg gets up before Mycroft for the first time since they arrived at the safe house. It’s only a few hours later; he didn’t get fall-down drunk or anything, but a little more than was really sensible, which always has him rising early feeling oddly jittery and a bit headachy. He showers off the smell of beer, noodles and prawn crisps, all of which are currently seeping from his pores. He dresses in his favorite shirt - dark blue, softest thing he owns, whoever snooped through his flat was a star - and jeans, doesn't bother with socks, and goes to the lounge to do some damage control on the mess from the night before. 

It’s not too bad. Mycroft is fastidious, and all Greg has to do is take what little garbage was left behind to the kitchen before giving the tables a quick wipedown and re-fluffing the sofa cushions. 

After that, he decides it’s his turn to figure out breakfast. He’s not great with eggs, but he can figure it out and scramble some, maybe fry up some bacon.

By the time he has a pot of coffee and a pot of tea ready, and the bacon nearly done, Mycroft shuffles in. 

Greg turns to say something flip and silly about their gamefest, but his mouth goes dry when he realizes Mycroft’s wearing _jeans._

“H—” Greg coughs. “Hello.”

“Morning,” Mycroft says, a little drawn, his voice wry. “I think I may be too old for three a.m. video games.”

“Nonsense,” Greg teases gently. “Have a seat, I’ll make you a cuppa and a plate.”

“You cooked.”

“I’m not _completely_ hopeless,” Greg says, fixing a mug of tea the way he’s watched Mycroft make it for the last few days. “I only ruined three eggs.”

“Wonderful,” Mycroft says, and it’s actually genuine, which is funny, and sweet. 

Greg slides the mug in front of him and goes to make him a plate. “Sleep well?”

“I suppose I did,” Mycroft says. “I might have slept later, but I didn’t remember to switch off my usual alarm. I’ll admit that I’ve been lazing about for almost an hour, though. The smell of bacon is what inspired me to motion.”

Greg grins and sets a plate of eggs, toast and bacon in front of him. “Well, here it is.”

“You are a prince,” Mycroft sighs, and tucks in. 

Greg joins him with a plate of his own, but finds himself stuck watching Mycroft, who is sweetly rumpled this morning, with shower-damp hair and a well-worn, pilled jumper over his _jeans. Jeans!_ Mycroft has one fist under his cheek as he pokes his fork into the eggs and takes a bite with a satisfied hum. 

“Sorry if I pried too much,” Greg says. “Last night, I mean.”

He hadn’t meant to say that. He hadn’t actually realized, fully, that he was anxious over it, worried that Mycroft would clam up on him now, all of it a fluke. 

“You didn’t,” Mycroft says softly. “Of course you didn’t. It… I enjoyed myself. I’m not accustomed to talking honestly about myself, but it was… _nice_ seems an inadequate word. But it _is_ nice to be known, sometimes. By a select few people.”

Greg swallows and keeps his eyes on his plate while he processes that. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Thanks, then. For… selecting me.”

When Greg glances up finally, Mycroft is smiling into his tea. 

  
  


***

  
  


They part ways, planning to meet for lunch. Mycroft says he doubts he’ll be much use to Anthea after that, and jokes that maybe Greg is due a rematch on the fighting game they played the night before. 

It surprises him that it wasn’t just a one-off. He’s glad. Mycroft deserves to relax more than he does. Greg will play silly video games with him all he wants. 

Greg plans to go wash his face, still feeling gritty from the night before, maybe have a lie down. But when he gets to his en suite, the soaking tub beckons. Greg does an about face back into the bedroom for his book. If he’s going to do the thing, he may as well do it right. He’s shoulder-deep in hot water with his book held a bare centimeter above it in no time at all. 

Greg can’t focus on the words, though. He winds up staring blankly at the pages, thinking how very much he wants this two weeks to last longer. 

He’s a workaholic, and he knows it. Always has been. Maybe not so much when he was a lot younger and had more of a social life, but definitely for the last fifteen years or so, work has been his main - sometimes only - reason for getting up in the morning. Greg’s self aware. He knows that’s not great. He knows it started because his marriage wasn’t doing well and got worse because his marriage was an unsalvageable mess. He knows it’s continued because he’s lonely. 

He doesn't miss work at all right now. He’s barely spared it a thought since the first morning. Here he is all of two days later and it feels like it’s been a week or more, his initial worry about missing work miles away. At this rate, by the end of the quarantine period Greg is going to feel like a lifetime has passed. 

What will it be like, going back to his sad flat? Returning to his regularly scheduled overtime? 

He can’t believe he feels _this_ melancholy over it. 

Tossing the book to the floor, Greg lets his head sink under the water, then resurfaces to rest it against the side of the tub with a heavy sigh. 

He’s being a bit ridiculous. He’s in a gorgeously appointed washroom, in a tub big enough that all six feet of him is entirely submerged in hot water that never seems to run out. The floors in here are heated, for god’s sake. He should be enjoying this, not worrying about the end of it. 

Greg closes his eyes and tells himself to relax. That he deserves that. 

It sort of works. 

  
  


***

  
  


He hauls himself out of the tub two refills later, and feels a bit like an overcooked noodle. He makes it into his boxer shorts and then sprawls across the bed for a mid-morning nap. 

When he wakes and sits up, the bedside clock tells him it’s nearly lunchtime. 

Greg can’t remember the last time he napped like that. He feels incredible, rested to an insanely luxurious degree. He rubs a hand over his face and breathes in deep. His back feels fantastic. His back _never_ feels fantastic. He very nearly flops back onto the plush mattress just to revel in how good his back feels, but just as he thinks it, Mycroft appears in the open doorway, heading for his own room. 

“Oh.” He pauses, blinking once at Greg’s half-undressed state before seeming to shrug it off. “Hello.”

“Hi,” Greg says, knocked a bit off-balance. Should he explain why he’s lounging around in nothing but his pants with the door wide open? “Sorry,” he manages. “I—”

“Quite alright,” says Mycroft. “I’m… just freshening up. Before lunch.”

“Right,” Greg mumbles. “I’ll er… put some clothes on, then.”

Mycroft’s lips twitch as he turns away. “A good plan.”

When Mycroft’s bedroom door clicks shut behind him, Greg takes a moment to question himself. When did he get _this_ uncool? _Truly?_

He decides he ought to hurry up. Get dressed. Get to the kitchen and occupy himself somehow so he doesn't have to look Mycroft in the eye just yet. He hops to it. 

  
  


***

  
  


In the kitchen, Greg realizes he has no idea what to make food-wise and not a single clue what Mycroft might want, so he goes about setting the kettle to boil and taking the tea things down from the cabinets. 

He stares at the hissing kettle and completely forgets his plan to hide his awkward face, turning to greet Mycroft with a smile when he hears him come in. 

“Fancy a—” _cuppa_ is lost in the sudden press of - of lips against Greg’s. 

It takes his brain a split second to process. He’d barely taken in Mycroft’s appearance, having only enough time to turn and register him there, before he was crowded quickly against the worktop behind him, hands holding him at his waist. Mycroft didn’t even pause, not even for a split second, before he kissed him. 

_Kissed. Him._ Greg gets on board so quickly it’s dizzying. He reacts like he always has when someone he’s really, really into kisses him: he clings. It’s the easiest thing in the world to writhe closer, pressing himself into Mycroft’s hands and body with a sharp inhale through his nose. His hands hold Mycroft’s face, palms to his cheeks, making sure he doesn't move away before Greg has a chance to kiss him back. Thoroughly. 

It’s _hot._ Not messy, not too much or too fast. But it zings. Greg’s spine twangs with the bright shock of anticipation, waiting to see if the tight lock of their lips moves into something else. 

It doesn't, not quite. But it does melt into something softer, more indulgent. There’s no need for bravado once Greg’s arms wind around Mycroft’s shoulders. Greg lets his lips part, invites Mycroft to deepen this by brushing his tongue suggestively over his lower lip. 

Mycroft gasps and breaks the kiss but not his hold on Greg’s torso, now more of an embrace than a clutch. 

Greg would let Mycroft do just about anything to him right now, right here against the kitchen bench. But he’s happy with this. Happy with catching his breath while Mycroft catches his, their faces close together but not touching, Mycroft’s hands sweeping soothingly over Greg’s back and shoulders. Greg doesn't really need soothing at present, but he’s not going to tell him to stop. 

“Okay,” Greg manages after a moment. “Right.”

“Sorry,” Mycroft murmurs, so close Greg can feel his breath on his own cheek. “I simply… did that.”

“Yeah,” Greg agrees, trying not to be too obvious about how badly he wants to do it again, or how still he’s holding himself to avoid trying to crawl inside Mycroft’s skin. “Yeah, you did. It was good.”

“Yes?”

“Yeah.” 

“Again?”

_“Yeah.”_

This time it’s a little messy. Greg bumps his head into the cabinet door behind him and Mycroft cups his hand there, fingers soothing the nonexistent ache, palm keeping him from doing it again. Greg could get a little overwhelmed, really, at the tenderness of it, but he’s too busy realizing that they’re both hard in their trousers right now. That the firmness pressing into his own hip bone is _Mycroft._ Greg doesn't shove forward or twist to get the angle right. He doesn't want to get off in the kitchen. He doesn't want it to happen that fast, or that awkwardly. 

He focuses on the kissing. The endless, liquid kissing. He doesn't notice himself working Mycroft’s shirt out of the waistband of his jeans - his _jeans,_ Greg still can’t get over it - but when his fingers find smooth, soft skin just underneath, _then_ he notices. The denim is worn-in and soft, the cotton of the button up cool and crisp. Mycroft’s skin is a revelation. Greg’s missed skin. He’s missed touching. He _loves_ touching. Greg is handsy, not that anyone would ever know it, or possibly even guess. But he has always been a complete slut for anything from an innocent sweep of fingers over the wrist or back of the neck to full-body naked cuddling.

It’s been a very long time since he had either, or anything in between. 

Mycroft touches Greg’s face when they kiss this time, a thumb sweeping over his cheekbone as his tongue traces gently inside Greg’s mouth, hand tipping his head back just a little more, angling him just the way he wants him. The hand on the back of Greg’s head slips down to his neck, squeezes - not tightly, but in a way that could be read as a little possessive. 

_Fuuuuck._

Greg whimpers a bit, unable to stop it. Mycroft’s slow, sensuous kisses stutter to a halt, as does the subtle rock of their hips. 

“God,” Mycroft says into Greg’s gasping mouth. “My _god.”_

“I hope that’s meant in a good way,” Greg manages to say. He forces his eyes open, lets his head tip further back so he can really see Mycroft’s face. “You okay?”

“I’m excellent,” Mycroft says, and it comes off a bit absent, quick to reassure, but his attention is elsewhere. His eyes are steady on Greg’s mouth as he swipes his thumb over it, catching at Greg’s kissed-slick lower lip. “Are you?”

“This is the best thing that’s happened since we got here,” Greg says. “This is the best thing that’s happened to me in... Uh. Ages.”

Mycroft kisses him again, soft and sweet, slow and unassuming. A little lip lock, and then it ends. “I don’t want to make assumptions,” he says. “Or for you to feel… cornered. We are here and we cannot leave. I don’t wish to make things… awkward.”

Greg bites down on his grin. Swallows against a slightly hysterical laugh. If things were going to get awkward, a kiss without warning up against the cabinets would’ve tipped the scales, he thinks. But he gets what Mycroft means, and doesn't want to tease him or pretend that he doesn't understand. He nods. “Okay. Well, I’m very much on board with the general direction things are taking now.”

_We could spend the next week and a half fucking on every surface in this house. We could start now. We could do it here, or we could go find a bed right now, or we could just—_

Greg’s stomach growls and Mycroft smirks at him - a different smirk from his usual. This one is a little fond, Greg thinks. It’s nice. It’s sexy. He’s _done_ for.

“I should feed you, at least,” Mycroft says, backing a half-step away. “Lest I find myself bitten by a man crazed by hunger.”

“You are starting to resemble a steak right about now,” Greg tries to joke, saying that instead of: _Genuinely, Mycroft, I could swallow you whole right now - take that however you like. Do you want me to bite you? Because—_

“Lunch,” says Mycroft, darting forward to kiss him once more before moving away entirely. 

“Yeah,” Greg agrees, though he does turn to lean against the worktop for a moment, trying to breathe through the flood of arousal, the high, heady feeling. “Great.”

  
  


***

  
  


Lunch is quiet. Sandwiches and salad, tall glasses of iced water, and more loaded glances than Greg feels he can bear. 

The second he’s eaten enough that he’s no longer starving, Greg sets down his fork, takes his napkin out of his lap, and gulps down half his water. 

“Right,” he says, setting the glass down slightly too hard. “Listen—”

“It’s alright,” Mycroft interrupts, not looking up from his plate. “I understand if - if things were a little… I apologize for overstepping—” 

“What?” Greg wishes he’d look up. “No. What? Fuck off, I’m not letting you down gently or anything.”

Mycroft drops his fork and does look up, blinking. “I—”

“I wasn’t about to change my mind,” Greg says slowly. “I was just going to say that I don’t want to seem like I’m desperate for it, though if I’m honest - I _am._ We don’t have to— I like you. You must know that I do. But just in case you don’t know, I wanted to say that. _And_ I wanted to say that I’m not trying to jump you or anything.” He nearly blurts that it’s been long enough for him, that he’s got enough fantasy material about Mycroft saved up, that if they jump right to sex Greg is likely to come in about ten seconds. “I mean, I _want to._ But I think it might be nice to just. Kiss a bit. Some more. Preferably on the sofa, which is pretty much made for that sort of thing.”

Mycroft traces absently at the water beading on his drinking glass. “I see.”

“I shouldn’t have said I was desperate.” Greg winces. Everything about that had been awful and awkward. “I just meant… it’s been ages. I’m _enthusiastic._ But you shouldn’t take that to mean I… that I wouldn’t like to just be with you, the way we’ve been these last few days. Because I would like that.”

Hopefully that sounds better. Probably not. He probably sounds like a complete idiot.

But then Mycroft pushes his plate away and stands up from the table. “Sofa, you said?”

  
  


***

  
  


Then, of course, just as they’re both pretending not to rush toward the longest bit of the sectional, Mycroft’s mobile rings. 

He screeches to a halt, and Greg has to steady himself before he slams into him. Fortunately for him, Mycroft’s hips are right there to hang onto for balance. Greg’s right there against his back to _feel_ him sigh. 

“A moment,” Mycroft says quietly, digging the phone out of his trouser pocket. 

“It’s no problem,” Greg assures him, and Mycroft turns his head so Greg can see his grateful smile in profile. 

“Yes,” Mycroft says into the phone, and for a moment Greg is sure it’ll be fine - Mycroft might need to step away for a minute, but of course Greg doesn't mind. But then Mycroft’s shoulders tighten right before Greg’s eyes. “He _what?”_

Greg steps away, giving Mycroft room to turn sharply and try to communicate something with his face. Greg doesn't know what it means - it just looks like… like fear. A sort of sick dread that Greg has only seen on Mycroft once before. 

This is about the sister. 

Greg shakes his head. _It’s alright,_ he mouths. _Go._

Mycroft’s eyes close briefly, but he nods, and goes, heading for the office. Greg doesn't know what to do with himself, so he sits and waits.

  
  


***

  
  


Mycroft reappears after a bit - only a half hour or so, which Greg hopes means that everyone is safe, at least for now. Greg stands from the sofa and then isn’t sure what he plans to do. Mycroft hovers on the steps down into the room, and Greg wants to be… reassuring. Or something. 

“Everything alright?” Greg prompts, and Mycroft seems to unstick, taking the final two steps into the room. 

“At the moment,” he replies. “I’m so sorry, I honestly would have put her off for anything else, but—”

“Sherlock?” Greg smiles and hopes it looks encouraging. “Trust me, I know. I’m not offended. Even if it had been work—”

“I wouldn’t have interrupted _that_ for work,” Mycroft says, insistent and upset. “I know I come off as—”

“Wait!” Greg holds up his hands. “Stop, no— Mycroft, it’s alright. I believe you, and I wasn’t implying anything. You don’t come off as anything. Come here, are you alright?”

Mycroft seems to sag, and he does round the sofa then, and lets Greg guide him down by the hands so they can sit side by side. 

“I’m fine,” Mycroft says. “Just… tired.” 

“Well I find that your brother tends to inspire a sort of bone-deep exhaustion, yeah.” Greg nudges Mycroft’s knee with his own. “What’s he done?”

Mycroft sighs. “He’s requesting access to our sister. Unsupervised access.” 

“Oh.” Greg isn’t sure what the correct response is here. He knows the barest minimum about this sister of theirs - psycho, murdering, scary, locked away. 

Months ago, when Greg got called out to some burnt out ruins to collect decades-old skeletal remains, he hadn’t had much time to ask questions, and he’d recused himself from the rest of the investigation based on his personal relationship with Sherlock. Mycroft that night, when Greg had gone to collect him from a helipad (on Sherlock’s request), had been pale and silent. He had spoken the words _‘Thank you, Inspector,’_ when they’d been sitting in silence outside his building for a good ten minutes and then been ushered into the building by his ever-present assistant. 

There is no polite way to say _So, about that weird sister you didn’t know about,_ so Greg hasn’t brought it up with Sherlock. 

Now, he isn’t sure if he should poke at it with Mycroft. 

As usual, Holmesian omniscience saves the day. 

“You want to know the story,” Mycroft says.

Greg winces. “Not… not if you don’t want to tell it.” 

Mycroft sighs. “I… wouldn’t mind telling it to you. I need another glass of water.”

Greg leans in close and takes his chances, brushing a kiss over his cheekbone. “I’ll get it.”

  
  


***

  
  


By the end of it, Greg is angry at about a dozen people, and Mycroft is not one of them, though Mycroft seems to think he should be. 

“I understand if your opinion of me is negatively affected.” Mycroft has somehow managed to slide several cushions away from Greg down the length of the sofa. His elbows rest on his knees, his shirtsleeves rolled messily to the elbow. Greg has never seen Mycroft fidget before today. He had looked about to jump out of his skin during certain parts of the story. 

Greg shakes his head. “It isn’t.” He makes an effort to relax his posture and loosen his fists. “Mycroft, of _course_ not.”

“Well.” Mycroft sighs. “That’s something, I suppose. Hopefully you understand why the prospect of Sherlock going to Sherrinford without me is so daunting - not that I want to go there. However...” His hands fiddle with his jumper sleeves, which is practically manic fidgeting for him. 

“I do understand.” Greg inches his way closer. “But he’s a grown man now, Mycroft, and not the little boy you were trying to protect. And you were just a kid then, too. What happened to you on that island was horrific; no wonder you don’t want to go back _or_ have Sherlock flying in for play dates on his own.”

Mycroft shoots him a wan little smile. “That’s nothing a therapist hasn’t already said to me, but I appreciate it.”

“Do you think Sherlock waited until now to request access because you’re stuck here?”

Mycroft shrugs. “Why does my brother do anything? Honestly, I doubt the quarantine period has anything to do with it. He wouldn’t be asking me, regardless. I don’t handle anything regarding Eurus’ care or incarceration. Not anymore.”

“I’m so sorry you ever had to make those decisions.”

Mycroft’s head lifts in surprise. 

“You never should have had to. No sixteen year old should be scrambling to finish secondary school early so as to be home more to protect his eight year old brother. No thirty year old man should find out his sister hasn’t actually been dead for years. You had a lot dumped on you, and that last right around the time of what was essentially a divorce. And from the sound of it, no one has cut you even the slightest bit of slack about any of it. Christ, Mycroft, how are you still _speaking_ to your family at all?”

Mycroft’s little smile is wider now, though his eyes aren’t quite picking it up. “That’s a lovely thing to say, actually.” He lets Greg, who has scooted his way closer and closer as he spoke, take one of his hands and squeeze it. 

“Well. You’re welcome, I guess. It’s just the truth.” Greg decides to set aside the urgency of the morning for a bit longer. “Want to shoot some more bad guys or something?”

Mycroft’s smile finally reaches his eyes. “Actually… that might help.”

Greg reaches for the controllers on the coffee table without any further discussion.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *devil emoji*


	5. Let Me Adore You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Andrea True Connection's "More, More, More" blasts from your speakers*: HOW DO YOU LIKE YOUR LOOOOOOOOVE  
> (If y'all thought I had cracked in my author notes for hunger, you're in for it! Because *I* thought I had cracked then but no. Nope. It can always get more ridiculous, and the boys can always get Softer)

Greg hasn’t done this particular arrangement of fully clothed limbs since he was a teenager, maybe. 

It’s so good. 

Mycroft let Greg press him down into the sofa cushions, and had been surprisingly pliant, hands waiting at his sides, while Greg slotted their legs together, got himself settled in all snug and comfortable with his weight on his elbows. At the first touch of their lips, Mycroft’s hands found their way into Greg’s hair. 

Now, long meandering minutes later, Greg’s got one hand all the way up inside Mycroft’s shirt, splayed flat against the center of his chest, and while Mycroft still has him by the hair with one hand, the other arm is curved around Greg’s back, his t-shirt rucked up for Mycroft’s hand to touch skin, his fingertips tucked mostly-innocently just in the top of Greg’s jeans. 

Mycroft is an excellent kisser. They work well together. Greg had wondered what would happen, as he crawled on top of him, how it might be when Mycroft wasn’t the one in charge of the kiss. He’s thrilled to learn that Mycroft softens beautifully under him, doing it as easily and naturally as he had pressed Greg up against the cabinets yesterday.

Greg had been a bit worried the night before, once he’d nudged a sleepy Mycroft up and off the sofa and they had gone separate ways to their bedrooms, that the entire thing - the kiss in the kitchen, the suggestive chat over lunch - had been a figment of Greg’s imagination. Sure, Mycroft had let Greg touch him a little, soothing, after the confessional nature of the conversation about his sister. Had tolerated exactly one fleeting kiss on the cheek. But fuck if Greg knows what any of that means. He hadn’t tried for more, too busy worrying and trying to contain his reaction to Mycroft’s story.

Lucky for Greg, Mycroft knows, and seems able to anticipate, just about everything, and greeted him in the kitchen this morning with a cup of tea and a brief, but promising, kiss. His expression had been a little tight around the eyes still, but Greg’s been trying to help soothe that away. He’d sent a couple quick texts to Anthea (her number having magically appeared in his contacts) for help accomplishing that, in fact.

Now it’s mid-morning, Mycroft is finished with a brief conference call, and they’ve finally made it to the sofa. 

“You feel so good,” Greg murmurs, pulling back to catch his breath but also to make it known that he’s enjoying the hell out of this. “Mycroft, you’re so…” 

Mycroft’s eyes are lidded and a little glassy. He licks his lips and shifts a little under Greg, their hips slotting together more suggestively with the motion. Greg groans and tips his forehead down against Mycroft’s. 

“You’re so not playing fair,” he finishes. 

Mycroft huffs, his chest moving up, down against Greg’s. “I wasn’t aware I needed to be fair?”

“You don’t,” Greg says, and kisses him some more even as he shifts around, one hand reaching down to tug at Mycroft’s leg, encouraging him to bend it and angle it out so Greg can settle there between his thighs. “God, you really don’t have to be fair. You don’t have to be anything.”

He’s making _no sense,_ but Mycroft doesn't seem to care. In fact, something about whatever nonsense Greg just said really seems to work for him. In a matter of moments, Greg’s shirt has been stripped off him, and the buttons of Mycroft’s are all undone. At the first press of their chests and bellies together, Greg nearly loses it, nearly forgets to keep kissing him. The urge to just bathe in the feeling of skin on skin is so strong that it’s practically a shock. 

Mycroft shivers. “Oh,” he murmurs. “You’re so warm.”

That hurts a little, that little spark of recognition. Greg had just been thinking it - how _warm_ Mycroft felt against him. How alive and real. 

“You too,” he says, kissing down to Mycroft’s jawline. “And you smell amazing.”

“Thank you.” 

“Hey, Mycroft?” Greg pauses, lips closed and pressing sweetly to Mycroft’s pulse point.

“Hm?”

“I wanted to do this before we got stuck here, you know.”

“Did you?”

Greg smiles against his skin. “Yeah. For a long time.”

Mycroft’s thighs tighten a little around Greg’s hips. He pets his hair. Strokes his bare arms. “So did I. For a very long time.” 

“Okay, good.” Greg nips at him a little bit, delighting at the cute little gasp that gets him. “That’s good.”

That means Mycroft might want to keep doing this after they _leave_ here. 

But that’s probably enough talking about it for now. Greg just needed to make sure the situation was clear to them both - that this isn’t a bored-in-the-safe-house pastime. At least, it isn’t _only_ that. 

Greg licks experimentally over Mycroft’s right nipple, glancing up to gauge his reaction. Mycroft is watching, mouth open and lips shiny from all the kissing. Greg drags his tongue around in a lazy circle, and then has to hide his grin when Mycroft’s eyes flutter and he sighs so _prettily._ Greg presses his smile to the bit of softness there at Mycroft’s belly, then kisses that too, because why not? 

Mycroft’s fingers scratch over Greg’s scalp. “Will you— could you sit up for a moment?”

For a breathless moment, Greg had really thought Mycroft was going to ask, _out loud,_ for a blow job, so it takes him a second to pull himself together. “Yeah, sure.” 

He sits back on his heels, the cool air of the room raising gooseflesh on his skin now that he’s not inside of their bubble of shared body heat. Mycroft pushes up onto his elbows and slides back, puts a little distance between them as he sits up straight - but only a little distance. Only enough, apparently, so that he can _look._

Mycroft reaches out with one finger, tracing it along the top of Greg’s chest at the start of the smattering of hair that sprinkles down to his belly. Greg fights the urge to suck in, to sit up straighter. To flex his arms or something ridiculous like that. As if he’s read Greg’s mind, Mycroft traces his finger over Greg’s bicep next. 

“Everything okay?” Greg doesn't mind this a bit, but he feels the need to check. 

Mycroft quirks a little smile. “Well, I wasn’t able to take my time looking yesterday, when you were lounging around naked with your bedroom door wide open.” 

“I had fallen asleep,” Greg protests, but at this point there’s no embarrassment left. Maybe a vague sense of pride - possibly he’d nudged Mycroft into this by _lounging around naked._ If that’s the case, Greg’s a bloody genius for passing out like that. 

“If you say so,” Mycroft drawls, just a little haughty, just a tiny bit judgmental. Greg shivers at another light, single-finger touch. “Is it alright if we…” Mycroft clears his throat. “I just need a little… perhaps a bit of a breather.”

“Oh!” Greg nods quickly, eager to be understanding. To do this correctly. “Yeah, ‘course, I mean… I can go to my room if you want some time to yourself—” 

“No!” Mycroft leans forward, hand urgent around Greg’s arm. “No, don’t go, it’s just. My lips are completely numb.” 

Greg laughs, startled, and licks his own. “Fuck, mine are too.” He winces. “Yeah okay, point taken.”

“Watch a film with me?” Mcroft leans even closer, brushing his mouth sweetly against Greg’s.

Greg feels something in his chest crack, just a tiny bit. “You want to cuddle on the sofa and watch a film?” 

“Well… yes.”

Greg bites his lip so he doesn't say anything embarrassing, and nods. “Okay. Yeah, great.”

“You’re sure it’s alright? We don’t have to—” 

“If I can be the little spoon,” Greg interrupts. “Then okay.”

Mycroft smiles, and it’s…

Well, it’s a lot for Greg to take in. 

  
  


***

  
  


Oh, god, he loves this. 

Greg _loves this._

He’d put his shirt back on, and Mycroft had mostly re-buttoned his own, but now that they’re settled sideways, Greg’s back resting against Mycroft’s chest, Mycroft has his hand up inside Greg’s t-shirt. Their faces remain close together. Greg’s fingers curl around Mycroft’s wrist. He even managed to get Mycroft’s socks off, so their bare feet can tangle together. 

Mycroft keeps pressing his mouth to Greg’s jaw, to his earlobe, to the side of his neck. He lets Greg brush kisses over his knuckles and wrist. 

They’re supposed to be watching _Dial ‘M’ for Murder,_ but Greg can’t concentrate, and doesn't want to. He’s busy soaking up every second of this, cataloguing all the places he’s being touched. 

“You are very tactile,” Mycroft murmurs as Greg watches Grace Kelly do… something. 

“Yeah,” Greg says, equally quietly. “It’s a thing with me. Hope that’s okay.”

“It’s more than okay.” 

“Are you a secret cuddler, Mycroft?”

He laughs against Greg’s back. “Well, I used to be an out and proud cuddler, if you must know. It’s just… well, I have foolishly set it aside for a very long time.” 

“Mmm, same.” Greg stretches, tipping his head back against Mycroft’s arm and leaning to try and get a look at him. “You know… I don’t really. Do this.”

“There are seventeen things that could mean, off the top of my head,” Mycroft says, both eyebrows raised. “I’m not sure which meaning I prefer.”

Greg laughs and has to kiss him, he _has to._ There have been roughly a thousand moments like that - where Mycroft was dry and funny, maybe a tiny bit vulnerable - where Greg has idly thought ‘I could kiss that man, that would be interesting’ only to shake it off and get on with their largely professional relationship. But right now he doesn't have to shake anything off. 

“I just mean… I don’t date. I don’t take my chances. In the past, even when I did try, even when I really liked someone, I definitely didn’t jump right into snuggling and films.”

“Intimacy, then.”

“Yeah.” Greg shrugs with one shoulder. “It’s not that I don’t like it. I love it. But it takes a while. It’s hard to know if it’ll ever come naturally. So even though I’ve missed it, it just seemed safer and easier to not look for it. But this… this is really good. It feels easy.” 

Mycroft twitches one of his little smiles. “Good,” he says. “Though I think - just because we’re in this house with no option to go elsewhere for the purposes of a… date… doesn't mean all the formalities should be waived.”

Greg feels himself grinning like an idiot. “You’re gonna date me in this safe house?”

“Well, it could be on a somewhat accelerated timeline.” Mycroft’s smile grows. Greg’s pretty sure Mycroft couldn’t look like an idiot if he tried; but this is as close to a full-on grin as Greg’s ever seen on him. “After the film, we could order a very nice dinner for later? Choose some wine?”

“Yes.” Greg nods, mind already racing over how _precious_ it is that Mycroft’s suggesting it, and how much Greg wants it. “Good, yeah, I’m in.” 

  
  


***

  
  


_Dial ‘M’ for Murder_ is winding down when Mycroft’s mobile gives a little chime. Greg ignores it, as well as the maneuvering Mycroft has to do in order to dig it out from between his hip and the sofa. Greg knows what that chime means, and while he wants to stiffen up in anticipation, he needs to remain calm. Play it cool. 

“Did you request a delivery?” Mycroft asks, puzzled.

“Oh!” Greg hopes his acting is good enough to fool a Holmes, just for a few minutes. “Right, I forgot. I did ask her to see about sending over a few things from home. Is it here?”

“It is.” Mycroft wriggles a bit behind him. “Should I go and get it?”

“You stay here, don’t miss the film.” Greg rolls up onto his feet and stretches a bit, as if he’s in no rush. “Be back in a second. Need anything while I’m up?”

“No, I’m quite comfortable.” Mycroft looks soft and a little ruffled - vulnerable - staring up at Greg from the sofa. 

Greg can’t help smiling and leaning down to steal a quick kiss. “Okay,” he says. “Be right back.”

The side entrance off the kitchen opens onto a little loading area. Anthea had texted Greg earlier to tell him that when he comes out, he can let the door shut behind him. The print reader next to the door will unlock it for him again. Greg vaguely remembers someone in a HAZMAT suit taking his thumbprint days ago. He’s sort of looking forward to pressing his thumb to the lock and watching it work. It’s cool - spy stuff. Mycroft stuff. Greg lets the door click shut behind him and waves at the idling car parked in the loading space. Who knows if Anthea’s the one behind those tinted windows, waiting to make sure the precious cargo being delivered has been safely accepted. 

Greg crouches down and peers inside the carrier, which is sat on top of a box full of supplies.   
  
“Well, hello,” he murmurs to the bright eyes inside. He can’t make out much else. 

Anthea had told him that she would be friendly. To take her inside and let her out and scoop her up. Greg pokes a finger into the carrier door, but Maddie doesn't move to sniff it. 

“Okay,” he says. “Let’s get inside. It’s chilly out here.”

Greg gets the carrier and the box into the safe house in two quick trips. He leaves the supplies by the door and takes the carrier into the kitchen, where he opens it on top of the kitchen table. 

Maddie proves Anthea right, slipping gracefully out of the carrier the moment the door swings open. Greg grins at her and holds out a hand, which she sniffs regally with her pink little nose. She lets him scoop her up and stroke her soft white head, blue eyes blinking curiously at him as one dainty paw lifts toward his chin. 

“Wow,” Greg whispers. “You are just _so_ pretty. Are you ready to go cheer someone up for me? Yeah? You miss him? I bet you do. Come on.”

Greg takes a deep breath. He’s almost one hundred percent sure that this is going to be welcome. He just… doesn't know if he’ll survive whatever happens to Mycroft’s face when he realizes his cat is now in residence. Anthea’s reaction over text had been very typical of what Greg knows of her in person - smooth expressions, flying fingers, quirked eyebrows - but she had let Greg know that his idea was a good one. 

He’d asked if anything he and Mycroft might have been exposed to in the lab would be harmful to an animal. 

She had taken a bit to reply, but the answer had been: ‘No. Why?’

Greg had quickly related his idea and her response had been precise: ‘I will send details for Maddie’s arrival as soon as I can.’ And then, a while later, ‘Nicely done, Inspector.’

So, when Greg descends the short set of stairs into the lounge, petite white cat in his arms, he feels good about it. 

When Mycroft glances up from his mobile, where he’s presumably scanning through his emails, then double takes, Greg feels _very_ good about it. 

And then Mycroft actually _gasps,_ and says, “You didn’t.”

“I did,” says Greg, and leans over the back of the sofa to transfer a very happy and wriggling kitty to her guardian’s waiting arms. Before he can straighten up again, Mycroft’s hand hooks insistently around the back of his head and pulls him down for a quick, fierce kiss. Greg’s breath catches in his throat, and he responds with a hand to Mycroft’s cheek, a finger swept up to the corner of his eye where he’s been tense since last night, soothing over it. 

“Thank you,” Mycroft says when they part. “You— How did you—”

“You could’ve had her here the whole time,” Greg says gently. “It would have been nice for you to have her nearby when you were upset yesterday. I had a feeling you wouldn’t think to have her brought over.”

Mycroft shakes his head. “I told Anthea to call the cat-sitter. I didn’t know if you would appreciate having an animal around. If you were allergic, or—”

“I get it,” Greg murmurs, pressing another kiss to Mycroft’s lips. “But I love cats. And she’s pretty cute, eh?”

Mycroft glances down at Maddie, who seems content to curl into the crook of his arm for now. “She is.”

“Yeah.” Greg gives Mycroft’s shoulder a squeeze before moving away to come around the sofa and sit beside them. “Anyway, no one should have to talk about heavy life stuff _and_ try to date their fellow quarantine captive without their trusty companion at their side.” 

Mycroft laughs and looks away. Greg gives his knee a little squeeze to let him know it’s alright to be a little overwhelmed. To be so happy he wants to cry on his cat a little bit. 

“Thank you,” Mycroft says. 

“You’re welcome.”

  
  


***

  
  


Dinner is high-end Italian, delivered to the doorstep by another one of Mycroft’s minions. Greg barely notices what it tastes like, though he knows it’s very, very good. 

There are bottles of Chianti, and then there are flaky, horrifically sweet cannoli for dessert. Conversation meanders and stretches. Greg keeps losing track of what he’s saying. 

“So,” he says once the food is finished and all that’s left is wine and literal candlelight - they had opted for the kitchen but stolen the candlesticks from the formal dining room. “In the interest of full disclosure, I had impure thoughts about you long before it was appropriate, but I would say that my actual, acceptable, crush on you is about four years old. You?”

Mycroft goes instantly, beautifully red on top of the wine flush already spilt fetchingly over his cheeks and neck. He looks away. “Oh,” he says, smooth as can be. “I couldn’t say. Does that matter?”

“No,” Greg says gently. “It doesn't matter. I was trying to be cute. You don’t have to answer.” 

Mycroft clears his throat and finishes what’s in his glass. “When did we meet?”

He must know that. If a Holmes has forgotten a date, Greg will eat his own shoes. But he’ll play along. “Twelve years ago, give or take.” 

Mycroft busies himself refilling his wine. “Well. Then.”

Greg catches up after a moment spent watching Mycroft top off his glass as well in a stunned sort of silence. “Mycroft—”

“I didn’t _pine,”_ Mycroft says with a little twist of the lips that says maybe he pined a _bit._ “But you should know that you are _unfairly,_ exactly my type, and extremely likable, and you were very kind to my awful brother, to which I frankly didn’t know how to react at the time. It rather transmuted itself into a certain level of. Adoration. Please stop me before I say something terrible.”

Greg’s cheeks hurt from smiling so much today. He’s never smiled this much in his life, he’s pretty sure. “Adoration,” he repeats, the tease he means to inject into his voice not quite hitting the right note. He’s gobsmacked. “Oh.”

“Drink your wine,” Mycroft says, brusque. “I’m going to walk you to your door after this.”

“Like a true gentleman.” Greg nudges his foot under the table. “Okay. Hey—” He nudges him again until Mycroft looks up. “It’s alright.”

Mycroft’s twisty little smile straightens itself out and softens. “I know it’s _alright._ You arranged to have my cat delivered today. Really, I am very much aware of how _alright_ it is.”

Greg bites back a laugh. That had been a pretty obvious move, hadn’t it? He lifts his wine to his lips and shoots Mycroft a wink, just to be cheeky. 

  
  


***

  
  


Mycroft really does walk him to his bedroom door. They’re both flushed warm and wine-tipsy. Mycroft carries the cat, depositing her in his own bedroom and closing the door before turning back to Greg to say goodnight. They’d dressed for their ‘date,’ so the goodnight kiss there in the hallway is just as it would be were it taking place anywhere else. Greg’s hands slip over the satin back of Mycroft’s waistcoat, and Mycroft’s hands wander only a little, down to the very top of Greg’s backside in the only pair of nice trousers Anthea brought him. 

The kiss is phenomenal, of course. Greg’s pretty sure that the only other person to have been this well matched to him in this department was in fact his ex-wife. It’s intoxicating to know that this is a possibility. That this kind of spark and compatibility can happen again. He tries to make the kiss last longer and longer, just to chase that feeling. 

“Goodnight, Greg,” Mycroft says softly, once they finally manage to stop. “Thank you for a lovely evening. And for being so thoughtful.”

Greg can barely keep his eyes open, drunk mostly on kissing but a little bit on wine as well. “Thank _you,”_ he says. “So far, this is the best quarantine I’ve ever had.” He grins. “See you tomorrow.”

Mycroft nods and steps away. 

Greg watches him go into his own room and is _very_ gratified when Mycroft turns back to look at him just before he shuts the door. Greg waves, and Mycroft smiles - bright and happy.


	6. I Need Contact

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did y'all want some smut? Or?

In the morning, Greg is nervous again for all of five minutes - the time it takes him to get out of bed, wash his face, and clean his teeth - that the spell from the day before will have broken overnight. But when he opens his bedroom door, Mycroft is there, tugging Greg out into the hallway by the wrist and kissing him _with feeling_ against the wall. 

_Yes!_

Greg laughs and hums and kisses back, clinging like the limpet he is, until Mycroft pulls away to say he’s got the morning, and possibly the entire day off, thanks to Anthea. Or possibly Anthea simply _informed_ him. It’s hard to say who’s in charge of who with those two. 

“Fantastic,” Greg breathes. “Easy breakfast?”

“Indeed. They delivered pastries again.” Mycroft takes a deliberate step back. “And then… I was thinking about a run in the gym. I need to burn off the pasta and wine, I think.”

“And the takeaway and the beer,” Greg reminds them both. “Yeah, me too.”

_We could work it off in other, more fun, naked ways—_

But Mycroft smiles, sweet and pleased. “Good,” he says. “It’s been a long time since I had a running partner.”

“Yeah, me too.” Greg takes his hand and tugs him down the hall. “We can race. You’ll win.”

Mycroft laughs and protests, but Greg stops him just at the doorway to the kitchen to kiss all that away. 

  
  


***

  
  


Mycroft is so full of shit. Greg had taken the running tights in stride, so to speak. He had managed not to break his concentration - much - from the stretches he was doing when Mycroft moseyed into the gym wearing them. His first thought: _legs-oh-god_ had turned quickly to: _those probably cost more than every piece of clothing I have here - how serious of a runner is he?_

It turns out, Mycroft isn’t a marathoner or anything like that, but he is an avid runner and has been slacking since they arrived at the safe house. He normally runs every single evening, he tells Greg when they’re about two miles in. He’s not having a problem holding conversation. Greg, already feeling a little burn in his calves, and definitely not speaking perfectly normally and levelly or running with perfect, gazelle-like form, is a little annoyed and a lot turned on. 

“You know,” he pants, around Mycroft’s fifth mile and his own...third and some change, “you could’ve warned me that there was no way I’d keep up with you. This is embarrassing.” 

Mycroft laughs and shrugs, not breaking stride. “You look good,” he says. “Flushed. Sweating. I’m enjoying myself immensely.”

Greg slams his hand down on the stop button before he trips over his own feet and breaks his neck. “You’re not fooling me, you know. I know that you know what you’re doing.”

“Oh?” Mycroft keeps on running, eyebrow quirked. “What am I doing?” 

“You _know._ You say these sexy little… and you know that it’s… _inspiring.”_

Mycroft laughs again. Greg finds it _unbearable_ that he can laugh and run at the same time like that. “You know, your speech patterns sometimes alter for me.” He throws Greg a smirk. “You’re practically Mister Bingley at the moment. _Inspiring?_ Really, Greg.”

“I’ve been _trying_ not to come on too strong.” Greg takes a gulp of water from the bottle in his treadmill’s cup holder. “I’m trying to be _a gentleman,_ thanks very much. If you knew the things that run through my head—”

Mycroft presses the cool down button on his treadmill. “I could guess at them,” he says, stride slowing by degrees. “Or you could simply demonstrate.”

“Are you giving me permission to grope you?” Greg shoves his sweaty hair off his forehead. “Is that what this conversation is?”

“Is that all you want to do?” Mycroft hops easily onto the gym floor. “Groping? I rather thought we’d covered that yesterday, on the sofa.”

“That was _not_ groping,” Greg protests, even as he moves off the treadmill and onto the floor with rubbery legs. “That was… that was very mild.”

“Was it?” Mycroft leans in, snagging Greg by the front of his damp t-shirt. “It felt _inspiring.”_

“God, shut up,” Greg laughs, and leans in to catch Mycroft’s lips with his own, stepping in close when Mycroft tugs his collar, hauls him in. 

In a blink, Greg’s pressed up against the side of one of the treadmills, and the kiss has gone downright _filthy._ Mycroft’s hands skim up under Greg’s shirt, slipping over his sweat-slick skin to tease his fingers over Greg’s too-sensitive nipples. Greg gasps and groans and tries to find some friction, hands full of Mycroft’s arse so he can roll their hips together. 

“You’re catching on,” Mycroft teases, dragging his mouth away from Greg’s to suck a line of kisses down the side of his neck. 

“You think you’re so smooth,” Greg grumbles, even as he’s wrestling with Mycroft’s zip-up top. “But I seem to remember you telling me last night that you _adore_ me. You’re just as - _oh -_ as, um—”

Mycroft responds by shoving Greg’s shorts and underwear down his hips and wrapping a hand firmly around his cock. “You were saying?”

“Nothing,” Greg replies, already pushing into that grip. “Nothing at all, _jesus.”_

“We should have done this last night.” 

“No, I liked being romanced a bit.” Greg hangs on while Mycroft does insane things with just his hand. Mycroft’s running tights are too snug for Greg to get a hand down them, and he lacks the coordination to get them off at the moment, so he shoves a thigh between Mycroft’s legs and uses one hand on Mycroft’s backside to guide him into a dirty grind against it. 

“And now you like being pulled off against a treadmill?”

“You should be kissing me more,” Greg says, and by the time they both stop laughing enough to really make that happen, he’s coming in Mycroft’s hand, shuddering out of the kiss. “Oh, _fuck,_ yes.”

Mycroft’s free hand rakes through Greg’s hair. “You are _exquisite,_ look at you.”

Greg moans, an aftershock rocking him through the circle of Mycroft’s fingers. “Don’t say anything else, you’re going to _kill_ me.” 

Mycroft kisses him instead, their lips still salty with sweat, a little stubble burn starting to make things just a bit raw. 

“Switch places with me,” Greg demands once he’s stopped twitching. He chivvies Mycroft around and leans him up against the treadmill before hitching his shorts up and dropping to his knees. 

“Ah— oh. Yes.” 

“Don’t sound so surprised.” Greg tugs the waistband of Mycroft’s bottoms carefully over his erection. He sighs happily at what he finds. “I’ve been thinking about this _forever.”_

Mycroft’s knees buckle at the first exploratory swirl of Greg’s tongue, and Greg looks up the length of his body to make sure he’s alright. He’s hanging on. It’s fine. Greg smiles as much as one can with a mouthful like that, and sucks, hands stroking over Mycroft’s legs, up the soft insides of his thighs. 

Greg loves this. He’s been called _a bit much_ when it comes to oral sex. He can’t help it; he loves being in a position to be downright worshipful. He loves the way he can touch and tease with his hands at the same time. He loves having fingers threaded through his hair. 

He loves the smell of it, the taste of it. All of it. He’ll have to make sure Mycroft knows that. It’ll probably take a few demonstrations to really make it clear. 

Greg certainly wouldn't mind. He’s intent on making this good for Mycroft now, but later he’ll want to do it again and really analyze all the things that work, the things that make him _cry,_ it's so good. From the sound of it, Greg’s not far off right now. 

“Close,” Mycroft gasps. “Very—” 

Greg hums and takes him as far as he can, swallowing and sucking, knowing it sounds messy and dirty, knowing he probably looks blissed out and sloppy. Mycroft’s fingers trace over Greg’s hollowed out cheeks and feel along the stretch of his lips. 

Greg opens his eyes to meet Mycroft’s, wide and then fluttering a little as his cock goes impossibly harder. Greg groans and flicks his tongue hard at the ridge just under the head, and then swallows him down again, not looking away, watching as Mycroft’s face collapses in pleasure, swallowing and swallowing as Mycroft comes down his throat with his lips parted in a silent cry. 

Mycroft draws in a sharp gasp as Greg gentles him through to the end, little stuttering moans working their way out of his heaving chest. “Oh my god,” he pants. “Greg, Greg— My _god.”_

Greg releases him carefully, still drawing an over-sensitized whimper out when he does. He has to clear his throat, and his voice is raspy when he speaks. “That was better than I ever could’ve imagined it. You’re so… Thank you.” He presses his forehead to Mycroft’s thigh, catching his breath. “Thank you for letting me.”

“Oh,” Mycroft breathes, hand petting Greg’s head gently, praise in the motion. It’s like he’s read Greg’s mind and knows that Greg gets off on that just as much as he got off on everything that came before. _  
  
_

Greg laughs weakly. “Oh,” he echoes with a shiver. 

  
  


***

  
  


Is it weird that Greg’s comfortable showering with him? Is it odd that it feels familiar already? That they massage suds into one another’s hair at the same time without needing to discuss it, bodies all slippery and sliding together, not hard, not driving toward any goal other than simple touch, and it’s just _easy?_ It’s intimate and sweet, not even a little awkward. Greg doesn't know what to do with it, so he just lets himself sink into it. 

By the time they get out of the shower and stumble to Mycroft’s bed, Greg is living on a cloud. In a fog. 

Mycroft rolls him onto his back and kisses him breathless. Their legs tangle, and from the floor a curious meow seems expected and familiar, too. Greg feels tiny paws working their way across the covers over their feet and smiles vaguely into the next indulgent kiss. 

“She’s into nap time, huh?”

“Mm.” Mycroft places one gentle kiss to each of Greg’s eyebrows, and then settles in beside him on the pillow. “She is.”

“Cute.” Greg lets his eyes drift shut. “Don’t let me sleep too long. Don’t want to waste the day. Want you again. More. Even if it’s just—” he yawns. “Just a cuddle, or…”

“Go to sleep,” Mycroft murmurs, and Greg does. 

  
  


***

  
  


Lips pressing sweetly to his own and a hand carding gently through his hair are what wake Greg later. He’s already smiling before he opens his eyes. 

“Ah, he lives,” Mycroft murmurs close to his ear. “You are very handsome in your sleep, but also _very still.”_

Greg laughs, still not bothering to open his eyes, and snuggles in closer. “Yeah, I sleep like a stone, sorry. It comes from needing to snag naps where one can on cases. I can sleep anywhere, and it’s like I just power down.”

“Interesting,” Mycroft says. He wraps his arms around Greg, pulling him over to lie half on top of his chest. “I’ve been accused of being a bit of a robot before, but I have never achieved that skill.”

“Anyone who really thinks you’re a robot is an idiot.” Greg finally pries his eyes open, and is immediately glad. He gets to see Mycroft’s sleep-fluffy hair, _and_ the pleased little smile he isn’t bothering to hide. “Hello.”

“Hello,” Mycroft echoes. 

Greg stretches up onto his elbow to steal a kiss. “Were we asleep for long?”

“A little over an hour,” Mycroft says. “Maddie woke me by walking up and down my back, and then promptly abandoned us to wander the house. I tried to let you sleep for a while longer but you’re very… tempting.”

Greg grins. “I don’t think I’ve ever been called tempting, before.”

“A terrible oversight on the part of everyone who has ever met you,” Mycroft states, then rolls them, shifting onto their sides. “Do you have a strong need to get out of this bed anytime soon?”

Greg pretends to think about it. “I’ll have to shift my schedule a bit,” he muses. “But eh, no, not really.” 

Mycroft rolls his eyes, but still kisses him, and then keeps kissing him, deeper and wetter and more urgent by the moment. 

“Oooh,” Greg murmurs as Mycroft reaches down to adjust them both so that they line up better to rub lazily together. “You genius.”

“That is what my permanent record says,” Mycroft mutters, fingers digging into Greg’s hip just a little tighter as they rock together. 

“What else does it say?” Greg nips at Mycroft’s chin. “Does the British Government’s file have his school reports in it? Were you a complete teacher’s pet?”

Mycroft huffs and tips Greg’s chin up with one finger to kiss him again. “I was when I was younger. I grew out of it at Uni. And I don’t know what my file actually contains, but I will have you know that it would be a little more interesting than that.”

“Yeah?” Greg sighs and hooks his arm under Mycroft’s, holding him closer and getting more skin pressed up against his own. “Like what?”

Mycroft rolls them again, pressing Greg flat to the mattress. Greg lets his thighs fall open and gasps at the way this new angle feels, Mycroft’s cock rutting against his own, Mycroft’s chest and belly pressed to Greg’s. Greg hangs on with his arms, unwilling to stop clinging to him just yet. 

“I was a bit of a wild child for a brief period,” Mycroft confesses before kissing Greg deep and dirty, a little biting and a lot wet and messy. Greg tightens his legs around Mycroft’s hips in response, groaning at the rhythm they’re starting to find. “I was always out somewhere. Always with someone. Rather scandalous.”

Greg tilts into another kiss, then lets his head fall back and to the side so Mycroft can access his neck. “You were probably so hot,” he muses, then gasps as Mycroft sucks hard over his pulse point. “Jesus, yeah, you could— you could bite a little if you—”

Mycroft does it, not too hard, then licks over the minor ache. “I was _pretty,”_ he corrects. “You wouldn’t believe the sort of attention one gets when one is a bit too skinny and _very_ up for it.” 

Greg laughs. “I believe it. You’re still pretty, though.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” Mycroft murmurs, and reaches between them to get his hand around them both. “Help me. I want you to come all over us both.”

Greg jolts at that and adds his own hand, tangling their fingers in a sweat-slick grip around their cocks. Mycroft doesn't turn into a different person in bed, or anything, but holy hell, Greg never expected _this._ Mycroft holds himself up over Greg, and thrusts into each slide of their hands. Greg does his best to match him, hitching up into it. 

Mycroft watches where they touch, the tops of his cheeks flushed pink, his hair flopping over his forehead. Greg reaches up and twists that little lock of hair around one finger. 

“So good,” he says. “Mycroft, you’re so good, I love this, it’s so hot. Fuck me, come on.”

Mycroft growls - _growls,_ Greg’s going to die - into Greg’s seeking mouth and thrusts harder against him, tightens his grip and Greg’s fingers along with it. “I want to feel you come all over my cock,” he says, low and demanding. “Do it.” 

Greg tries to say something but only really succeeds in emitting a whine and a series of garbled syllables as those words hit like jolts of electricity. His fingernails scratch over Mycroft’s back and shoulder as the rest of his body seizes. A breathless moment later he shouts, probably right into Mycroft’s ear, and comes, incoherent but loud. 

“Perfect,” Mycroft says. “That’s it, that’s what I wanted. Good. _Good.”_

And then Mycroft comes too, silent like he was the time before, with his mouth open against Greg’s temple. 

Greg can’t track the process of letting go, getting their messy hands up above the covers, but somehow Mycroft gets them clean enough for now with tissues from the bedside table. Greg has come on his belly, too, and somehow on his clavicle. Mycroft wipes that away with a wry little smile. 

“You’re gonna ruin me, huh?” Greg teases on a slow grin. “Just obliterate me.”

Mycroft laughs. “You are _adorable_ like this.”

“Dopey, you mean.” Greg squinches his eyes shut. “Give me a minute and I’ll be all there again. I just get a little come-drunk is all.”

“I like it,” Mycroft says, and the kiss he takes from Greg then is affectionate and almost chaste. “I’ll wait for you to reboot, shall I? And then feed you once more? You must be starving.” 

“Mmm, I could eat.” Greg hums as Mycroft curls around him. “But this is good. This for a little bit longer.”

“Anything you want,” Mycroft tells him, and it’s soft and sincere. He’s back to the version of himself Greg has been growing accustomed to. 

And Greg isn’t falling asleep again. In fact, it’s more like he, or some part of him, is waking up after a very long hibernation. He lies there and feels it fill him up, a lightness in his chest and a thrum of anticipation in his bones. 

  
  


***

  
  


Later, Greg finds Mycroft curled into a corner of the sofa, Maddie in the space beside his legs. He’s back in pajamas, a decision they’d made before lunch, figuring there was no point pretending they’d be needing real clothes today. He’s showered again, and his hair dried without any interference from a comb or gel, so it’s wavy in the back and on the sides and a little fly away at the top. His feet are covered by warm-looking socks, and he’s draped a throw blanket over his lap. 

Greg wishes he could take a picture. He _could_ take a picture, probably, with his mobile, but he doesn't know how to ask permission without sounding weird about it. So instead, he hovers in the entryway for a moment, just taking him in. 

“Got a confession to make,” he says, prompting Mycroft to glance up from his book. 

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” Greg licks his lips, nervous and unsure why he would bring this up. But considering the mind-blowing sex they’ve had twice today, he figures he can say it. “The second night we were here? I wanked over the thought of you like this.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows head toward his hairline. “Beg pardon? Like this?” He glances down at himself. “You’re being serious?”

“Well!” Greg shifts. “Don’t… don’t shame me for my fantasies! You’re very… this is a good look on you, is all I’m saying. And I mean, it’s not like I _stopped_ at this particular image, it’s just that I wondered what you would look like all soft and relaxed. And then I wondered what it would be like to sit in your lap and kiss you a lot, and then I thought about stubble burn and things sort of ran their course. As they do.” 

Mycroft’s face goes a bit softer with every embarrassing detail. When Greg’s done and wishing he had pockets in these pajama bottoms so he could shove his hands in them, Mycroft tilts his head to the side and says, “You actually _like_ me.”

Greg blinks. “I thought that was clear, at this point.”

“You said it,” Mycroft agrees. “But. I’m not used to that. Being liked. No one knows me enough to… But you do.”

“I have for a while,” Greg says. “Please keep telling me more? Because I… yeah, Mycroft I’ve spent over a decade getting to know you bit by bit, and I _like_ knowing you. And I’m absolutely shit at moderation, so. I’m always going to want to know more. I’m dying to.”

He watches Mycroft’s throat move as he swallows. He’s a little pink in the cheeks, which is extremely appealing. 

“Alright,” Mycroft says.

“Can I come sit with you?” 

Mycroft’s smile is very soft. He lifts the blanket draped over his lap. “There’s plenty of room.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You ever just lie on the floor and think about how a Mycroft Holmes who is really awkward and inexperienced is fun and all (I mean hello, we all know I love it), but there's just something about a Mycroft who is actually really good at being someone's boyfriend and is kind of excellent in bed due to his ability to read his partner, but he just hasn't had the chance in a long time? There's just. Something. About. That.


	7. Stuck On You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am awake for no reason at all, so you all get this chapter for no reason at all <3

On their sixth morning in the safe house, Greg wakes in Mycroft’s bedroom with a pair of blue eyes staring deeply into his own. They are _not_ the blue eyes Greg was expecting. Maddie blinks slowly at him and then indulges in a luxurious yawn. Greg reaches out a careful hand to stroke two fingers over the top of her head, and she tips into the touch happily, pressing up into his palm with a contented little whirring noise. 

“Don’t steal my cat,” says a sleep-roughened Mycroft just over Greg’s shoulder. To the cat he says, “You can’t just be taken in by any pretty face, Maddie, you hussy.”

Greg keeps his laughter mostly silent, not wanting to startle the cat away, but the result is that they all shake with it while he buries his face in his pillow. “God,” he says. “You’re so cute.”

“I am not,” Mycroft replies, haughty. “I’m very intimidating. Ice cold.”

“Mm.” Greg gives Maddie one last scritch before he turns over, accepted immediately into Mycroft’s arms. “And really cute. Fluffy, even.” 

“This is character assassination.” 

_This is me falling head over heels for you in a week._

Greg blinks his way though _that_ thought and shakes his head. “Whatever you say, Mister Holmes.” He stretches, then lets the motion carry him further into Mycroft’s space, sprawling over him a bit with his nose buried in the hollow of Mycroft’s neck, where he gets stuck just sort of breathing for a while. “I hope you don’t mind that I’ve basically spent the last couple of days rubbing my face all over you. I don’t think I’m stealing your cat so much as she thinks I _am_ a cat.” 

“Do I mind that you seem fixated on my skin, and therefore tend to spend a lot of time touching it? No. I don’t mind.” The weight of Mycroft’s lips at the crown of Greg’s head is firm, but fleeting. “You should assume that you have an open invitation to do as you will with me for the next… hm. What is it now? Seven days?”

Greg winces, glad his face is hidden from view. “Yeah, I guess so. I can’t believe it’s been a week already. Time flies when you’re having fun, I suppose.”

“Mm. I think I might treat the next few days as an actual weekend. I haven’t taken a Saturday off in years. Today seems like a good day to start.”

“Christ, is it Saturday?” Greg cringes a bit. “I’m going to have to explain this to my sister, then. I usually go to hers for tea on Saturdays.”

“You can tell her the truth, or most of it.” Mycroft’s palm soothes gently over Greg’s back, down the line of his spine. “Do you think she’ll believe it?”

“You realize she’s met Sherlock, right? She’ll believe it.”

Mycroft’s hand stills. “She has met Sherlock?”

“More than once.” Greg snorts. “The first time was at her house _in the middle of Henry’s birthday party._ Someone at the yard was stupid enough to tell Sherlock where I was when he came to my office looking for me, and he gatecrashed.” 

He can _feel_ Mycroft wincing, and when he looks up, resting his chin on Mycroft’s chest, he can see it, too. 

“It was alright,” Greg says. “Henry was turning eight, if I remember correctly. He thought Sherlock was _very cool._ They played pirates. Sort of. I don’t really know what they were doing. There was a lot of talk of blood splatter and treasure.”

“Oh,” says Mycroft softly, his free hand, the one not holding Greg close to him, comes up to rub absently at his mouth. “That’s… good.”

Greg studies him for a moment, trying to read the little thread of sadness in that motion, in that expression. “What was Sherlock like when he was little?”

Mycroft smiles, quick and sharp. “Impossible,” he says. “Funny. Curious. Sweet. Adventurous. Fearless. Imaginative.” 

Greg notices that nowhere in there were words like _brilliant, genius, intelligent, sharp, intense._ He’s sure Sherlock was all of those things. But Greg’s a big brother, too. He understands why they were omitted in Mycroft’s recollection. 

“You love him so much,” Greg murmurs. “You realize that he knows that? Now more than ever, I think. I think he appreciates it more. He’s a different man these days.”

“He’s practically a stepfather,” Mycroft says, wistful and proud. “One of the three of us somehow managed to find some semblance of sanity and stability.”

That Mycroft seems to think he is not the sane, stable one is unbelievable to Greg, but he won’t press that now. He tucks it away for later. 

“Well, let’s not give Sherlock _too_ much credit.” Greg nudges Mycroft’s leg pointedly with his foot. “He’s about to turn forty and _just_ figured out how to say nice things out loud to the people who care about him, and he still walks around with a dressing gown over his thousand pound suit half the time. He’s doing better, yeah, but he’s still a mad bastard.”

Mycroft laughs. “You can’t even keep the affection out of your voice when you say that.”

“Well I love the stupid idiot,” Greg grumbles. “He did fake his death for me, sort of. I mean, I’m not delusional, I think we all know John was the main, you know, _focus_ of that particular threat. But Mrs. Hudson and I have had a chat or two about being the other two-thirds of that little set-up. It’s… it’s really something, to understand that you matter to a person who is that brilliant and that untouchable.”

Mycroft laughs again. “You poor thing, you simply can’t escape the awkward admiration and regard of Holmeses. Do _you_ want to visit my sister? See if she likes you, too?”

“Terrible,” Greg mutters, poking Mycroft in the side. “No, thanks, on that one. Anyway, we can stop talking about your siblings now. I’d much rather talk about you.”

“Must we?” Mycroft tries his best to wrestle Greg over onto his back, and very nearly succeeds. In the tussle, Maddie takes off in a streak of white fur and with a disgruntled little yowl. 

Greg lets Mycroft get him about halfway over, onto his side, before flinging a leg over him to hold them still. There, pressed together front-to-front and totally naked under the covers, Greg says, “Tell me something about you. Tell me more about how slutty you were at uni, or how you learned to cook. Tell me something weird or funny.”

Mycroft huffs and hides his face in the pillow. “I don’t want to,” he grouses, then jerks and lets out a sound that’s almost a squeak when Greg digs his fingers into his ribs. “No! Absolutely no tickling!”

Another scuffle ensues, and Greg is quite pleased to find himself on his back at the end of it, both wrists pinned to the pillows by Mycroft’s hands, and Mycroft’s mouth trailing hot down the center of Greg’s chest. 

“I won’t forget,” Greg says, breathless. “I’ll get more information out of you, mark my— mark my words.”

Mycroft looks up from where he’s licking and kissing down from Greg’s navel. “Fine,” he says regally. “But after.”

And then he closes his mouth over the head of Greg’s cock and everything else simply ceases to exist. 

  
  


***

  
  


“I learned how to cook because Andrew’s mother disapproved of my privileged upbringing, and I wanted to impress her,” Mycroft says while Greg’s buttoning his shirt for him. “I kept learning after he left, because I have an unfortunate tendency to eat my emotions and I was getting tired of eating alone in restaurants. I was a _bit_ pathetic.”

Greg finds himself smiling stupidly at Mycroft’s buttons and the fine check pattern of his shirt. This was never meant to go under a suit. It’s soft and casual and fitted. Mycroft looks downright delicious in it. He smooths his hands over the sides of Mycroft’s waist, straightening out nonexistent wrinkles. 

While Greg rolls the sleeves neatly to the elbow, Mycroft says, “Also, I can draw. I’m rather good. I don’t think anyone knows outside of Anthea and my immediate family, and I think they all assume I gave it up when I was a child. But I didn’t. I still draw. It’s the best way to keep focused while on endless conference calls and to pass the time on long flights.”

Greg finishes the second cuff, then lets his fingers trail back down to Mycroft’s hand. He lifts it to his own lips and kisses over his knuckles. “Well. First - you could never be pathetic. I refuse to believe you ever have been, even for a minute. Second - can we get Anthea to bring you a sketch book? I want to see.”

Mycroft appears to bite back the first thing he wants to say, then nods. “Yes, we can. I’ll request it.”

“Thanks,” Greg says softly, and kisses his hand again. “Can’t wait.”

Mycroft takes Greg’s face in his hands and kisses him thoroughly then, slow and full of promise. They’re supposed to be venturing out of the bedroom. They haven’t eaten yet today, and managed to lie around hanging all over each other and trading blowjobs until noon. They’d decided to get dressed in order to force themselves to go foraging for lunch. But the kiss is good, just like all the others, and Greg would like nothing more than to strip Mycroft right back out of the shirt he just buttoned.

“You can’t just kiss me like that and expect me to go eat a sandwich,” Greg grumbles when Mycroft finally has mercy on him. “Seriously, Mycroft. Unfair.”

Mycroft kisses his cheek. “Sorry,” he says, not sounding it at all.

  
  


***

  
  


Greg senses the migraine before it hits. They’ve eaten and tidied the kitchen, forced themselves to sit a somewhat respectable distance apart (plastered against each other, Mycroft half in Gregs lap) and behave themselves for a couple of episodes of Downton Abbey.

Sometime around Lady Mary killing a handsome visitor with her sexual prowess, Greg’s vision gets a little weird around the edges. 

He tries closing his eyes, but the flicker of the screen is still there on the other side of his lids, and the soothing soundtrack is suddenly oddly grating. 

“Mycroft,” he murmurs. “I think I need to go lie down again.”

Mycroft twists to look up at him. “You’re tired?”

“No.” Greg covers his eyes with his hand, blocking any light from getting in. “Migraine. It doesn't hurt yet, but it’s going to.”

Mycroft sits up like a shot. “A headache? Are you feeling ill?”

Greg shakes his head and winces at the weird, brain-rattling feeling that it generates. “No, no. I get these sometimes. It’s definitely a migraine. I have pills in my shaving kit.”

“Right.” Mycroft stands. “Then you should have them immediately. Are you in need of anything else? Caffeine or water?”

“Both, maybe,” Greg says, grateful. “You know a bit about migraines?”

“Anthea has a tendency to get them on long trips,” Mycroft explains, and Greg notices that his voice has dropped to a lower register, soft and quiet. “Keep your eyes closed, I’ll lead you to bed, yes?”

Greg nods, swallowing against a bit of nausea, and lets himself be led. 

In the bedroom - it’s Mycroft’s for sure; it smells like them - he is helped out of his jeans, leaving him in a t-shirt and his pants, and then into the bed. 

“Cool flannel?” Mycroft asks gently, and Greg nods. “I’ll be back in a moment. Is your shaving kit easy to find?”

“Sink in my en suite.”

“Excellent. Just a moment.”

Greg focuses on breathing deeply and relaxing his muscles into the excellent mattress. Mycroft returns very quickly, and a moment later a cool, wet cloth is pressed over Greg’s eyes. 

“Wait here with this, and I’ll fetch water and tea.” 

“Thank you,” Greg manages to say. “You really - you really don’t have to do everything for me.”

“That is patently false,” Mycroft sniffs. “Give me five minutes.”

  
  


***

  
  


It’s an hour or so before the pills and caffeine kick in. Greg always comes out of migraines slowly, a little bruised-feeling around the eyes. He lifts the flannel and the cool air of the room feels good against his damp skin. 

“Mycroft?”

“Still here, of course,” Mycroft murmurs very quietly. Greg had known that, what with Mycroft’s fingers gently skimming up and down Greg’s forearm for the duration. “Feeling a little better?”

“Yeah,” Greg says. He lets the flannel fall off the side of the bed and opens his eyes. There isn’t much light in the room, what with the lack of windows in the bedrooms, but what little streams in from the light left on in the loo doesn't feel like a knife to the temple. “More than a little, actually. Nearly out of the woods, I think. You’re an amazing nurse.”

“I did very little,” Mycroft murmurs, scooting closer. “I’m relieved that this one didn’t last as long as some of Anthea’s have. I always feel rather useless when she’s feeling poorly.”

“They don’t usually fade this quickly, for me.” Greg curls onto his side so he can see the outlines of Mycroft’s face in the low light. “I don’t normally have lovely men on hand to usher me to bed and feed me medicine and tea.”

Mycroft smiles. “Well. I’m happy to have been of service.”

“You know,” Greg murmurs, reaching for Mycroft’s hand to hang on to. “I never pictured it like this. When I really thought about how I could ever start something with you, it was never this easy.”

“Really?” Mycroft wraps his other hand around both of theirs. “I always knew it would be.”

Greg feels that like a bit of a kick to the chest. “Oh.”

Mycroft makes an amused little sound. Not so much a laugh as a vaguely exasperated exhale. “Rest a bit longer,” he says. “I’ll cook for you when you feel ready for a meal.”

Greg lets his eyes drift shut and adds his free hand to the clasp between them. “Lovely. You’re so, so lovely.”

Mycroft murmurs something Holmesian for ‘I know you are but what am I,’ but Greg’s already drifting a bit, and doesn't quite catch it.

  
  


***

  
  


Over rustic soup and crusty slices of bread, Greg tells Mycroft a bit about growing up raised by his and Laura’s grandmother - the stern German one from his mum’s side, not the somewhat flighty French lady who had birthed their father - after their parents had passed. 

“There was always the implication that if you couldn’t make yourself useful, you really were just _literally_ useless. Worthless.” Greg shrugs. “She was bloody stern, but I mean. We grew up valuing work ethic, and she turned us into self-sufficient adults. Was she warm and cuddly, our Nan? Not a bit. But she wasn’t nasty or unfair.” 

“How old were you, when…?”

“I was fifteen when dad died,” Greg says. “Mum had gone a couple years earlier; cancer. So yeah, I was fifteen and Laura was nine. Nan had been more or less bringing us up for years already by then. Dad worked a lot. Laura was _furious_ with me when I moved out of Nan’s the second I turned seventeen.” 

“Of course she was.” Mycroft lifts one shoulder. “So was Sherlock when I went to University. He was nine, then. Those middle years between childhood and adolescence are… well, I don’t remember mine very clearly but I don’t think I’ll ever forget Sherlock’s.”

Greg laughs. “Oh, god, I know! Laura traumatized me, it was all so _dramatic._ I can’t imagine it scaled up to Sherlock levels, and with everything you all had been through, I _really_ can’t.”

“Well, his deletion of the entire affair was rather convenient at the time.” Mycroft makes a knowing, self-deprecating sort of face. “Rather ridiculous that we all just accepted it.”

 _“You_ were a child yourself,” Greg says stubbornly, refusing to give an inch on this topic. He’s found himself returning to the story of Mycroft’s sister in his mind a lot, turning it over and over and getting angrier and angrier at the Holmes parents “Anyway, Laura said she’d never speak to me again when I left, but cracked three days later because she wanted to tell me all about what happened on Doctor Who the night before. How about Sherlock?”

“He burned the clothes I didn’t bother taking with me,” Mycroft says, rolling his eyes. “None of them _fit,_ which is why they were left behind in the first place. He gave our parents a bit of a heart attack. They were convinced he was a pyromaniac like our sister, or acting out his latent fears by recreating her actions. Unbelievable.”

“Christ.” Greg shakes his head. “What the _hell?”_

“I ask myself the same question at least twice a day, I assure you.”

Greg returns Mycroft’s wry smile across the table, and reaches out to nudge their feet together underneath it. 

As they’re cleaning up the dishes, a familiar chime sounds from Mycroft’s mobile. 

“Ooh, delivery,” Greg says. “Shall I grab it?”

“You want to use the thumbprint reader again.”

 _“And?”_ Greg hipchecks Mycroft on his way toward the side entrance. “Excuse you, not all of us are allowed to play with the fancy high tech toys all the time.”

“Ah yes,” Mycroft drawls. “My work does so center around gadgets and the bleeding edge of technological advancement.”

“You know what I mean, double-oh-seven,” Greg tosses over his shoulder. 

There’s a large shopping bag waiting with other smaller bags inside. Greg takes it in to unpack on the kitchen table. There is a bag containing a new sketchbook and a set of pencils, and one containing an old one inside of a leather folio. There is a bag of sweets. And one of condoms and lube. 

“Did you make your assistant buy these?” Greg asks, holding up a tube and a box. “Seriously?”

Mycroft’s eyes widen. “No, I did not,” he snaps. 

“Well, well, well,” Greg says, then has to pause to bite down on the grin threatening to stretch his face out. “Anthea’s on team Lestrade, then. Excellent.”

“Anthea is team Holmes until _death,”_ Mycroft corrects. “I believe it’s in her contract.”

“Does this mean she knew about your very serious long-term crush on me?” Greg delights in the wince and blush that gets him. “Mycroft, does she have reason to believe you had designs on my virtue when we were shuttled here by your little men in black? Were you cooking up a little seduction while I sat there, utterly unaware and—” 

Mycroft stops the teasing tumble of jokes with his mouth and tongue, pressing Greg back and forcing him to sit on the kitchen table or fall backwards onto it. He kisses hard, like he can convey annoyance and possibly a little desperation with just his mouth. And really, he can. It works for Greg. He can read Mycroft’s kisses pretty well already. 

“Planning on using these on me right here on the table?” 

Mycroft groans and tears his mouth away, hands tight around Greg’s hips. “You’re awful.”

“I’m _up for it,”_ Greg corrects. “It’s been years but I hear it’s like riding a bike. You’ll have to be gentle, of course, but—” 

Mycroft shuts him up again, this time with a little bite of reprimand thrown into the mix. 

Greg loves it and goes utterly soft for it. He does think that if Mycroft is doing this to get Greg to _stop_ thinking about getting fucked over this table, he’s really on the wrong track.

But that’s fine by Greg. So. 

  
  


***

  
  


Though he has no regrets whatsoever about extensive snogging in the kitchen, Greg is still a little fragile from the migraine earlier. Mycroft reads him like a book and puts a stop to any more athletic plans Greg might have like to make. 

“Tomorrow,” he promises, dragging Greg into a cuddle on the sofa. “For now, you get to lie here and keep your eyes closed.”

“Bit boring,” Greg teases lightly. In all honesty, the thought of lying quietly in Mycroft’s lap for the rest of the evening is appealing in the extreme.

“I was going to read,” Mycroft says. “I can read to you if you like.” 

Greg nearly falls off the sofa in a sudden, delighted panic. He holds himself together by a thread, though he’s sure his expression is completely manic. “You would _read to me?”_

Mycroft just shakes his head at him, clearly baffled. “Yes, of course. I was thinking that I’m due a reread of _Master and Commander_ , though I’ll happily read whatever you like.”

“Not to sound too eager,” Greg says, “but you reading that book out loud to me is almost as good as the sex I thought we’d be having right now.”

For this, Greg is treated to the sound of Mycroft’s most genuine, most caught-off-guard laugh. And then, of course, he gets to listen to him _read._

It’s practically orgasmic, except for the part where he passes out somewhere around chapter two.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Take a journey with me into our imagination playground, where we get to picture a solicitous Mycroft bring Anthea the spare sleep mask he carries for her to block out the light and pressing his fingers to that spot on your hand that can help relieve a headache while he answers emails with the other hand. He's a PRINCE, I tell you. IDK why I'm fixating on this in particular. It's 2am, cut me some slack.


	8. We Float Like Two Lovers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took a lil breather, but you KNOW I wasn't going to leave you all hanging for long :D

Greg really had thought he was just being funny the day before, when he’d teased Mycroft about being gentle with him. 

He hadn’t given any thought to how Mycroft would take it. If he _had_ given it some thought, he might have worried that Mycroft would take him very seriously and go very slowly - maybe even nervously, hands too careful and voice overly solicitous. 

He would have been wrong. 

Mycroft, it seems, is intent on getting Greg back for his teasing. And he’s succeeding. Greg’s on his knees in the center of the bed, bent over to rest on his forearms. He grabbed a pillow a while ago so he has something to sink his fingers into, to occasionally bury his face in. Behind him, Mycroft has been teasing him mercilessly for what feels like eons. 

First it was all teasing strokes and peppered kisses, little lovebites to the backs of Greg’s thighs and even one for his arse cheek. Then Mycroft’s hand, practically dripping lube, reached around and between Greg’s legs to stroke - exactly twice - and then simply held onto his already leaking cock. He hasn’t stroked or twisted or even squeezed since stilling his hand. He just. Holds. And he’s been teasing his slick fingers around and around Greg’s hole, _talking_ the entire time. 

Mycroft says things like _‘I never knew you would gasp for it like this’ and ‘I had no idea, or I might have done something about you earlier’_ and _‘Your thighs are magnificent. Maybe I’d rather fuck them instead. Would you like that?’_

And now it's, “Tell me what you want.”

“Mycroft, _please.”_

“Please, what? Come on, Inspector. Instruct me.”

Greg tries to rock, tries to get friction on his cock. Mycroft moves with him easily, doesn't let him have it. “Want you to fuck me,” he manages to say, cheeks burning. He’s not embarrassed to want it, or even to say it. But he _is_ completely unprepared to be spoken to that way. “You _know_ it.”

“Obviously.” Mycroft kisses him sweetly at the base of his spine. “But, first things first. What do you need from me?”

“Fingers,” Greg grits. “Please stop teasing me, put them in me, Mycroft. Do it fast, I don’t need— “

One of Mycroft’s slender fingertips breaches him, slow and careful. “Oh,” he says, all feigned innocence. “Like this?”

_“No—”_

“I’m not going to do it fast,” Mycroft interrupts. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten, but an injury can rather put a damper on things. Of course, I’m willing to make certain concessions - if you _ask.”_

“Fine,” Greg murmurs, honestly very happy to give up the pretense. “Fine, fine. Give me one finger, then. Deep. Fuck me with it.”

Mycroft kisses his lower back once again. “Good, Greg.” 

“Should’ve known you’d be bossy in bed,” Greg says, keeping his voice steady, trying not to show how much he loves being told he’s done well. He can’t give the _entire_ game away. Not yet. 

“And I should have known you would be stubborn.” Mycroft moves his finger in and out, slow and careful, but steady. 

“Can I have a second finger?”

“Of course you can.” It’s gratifying, the way Mycroft’s voice is a little breathier. 

The stretch of two is more satisfying. He needs a little more time adjusting to it, but Greg also can’t help trying to push back against it, take them deeper, sooner. 

“Fuck me,” he rasps, then swallows in an effort to clear his voice. “Please, Mycroft.”

The fingers thrust with more purpose, curling _just_ right. Greg shudders, feels his cock twitch in Mycroft’s other hand. 

“Can I move?” Greg demonstrates, shifting his hips forward, trying to thrust into the circle of Mycroft’s wet fingers. “Let me move?”

“Go on.”

From there, it’s easy to ask for more, and soon Greg has been given everything he’s requested. He’s stuffed full of three fingers, lube dripping _everywhere,_ and if he keeps up the steady fucking into Mycroft’s grip, he’s going to come. 

“I don’t want to—” Greg interrupts himself with a sharp cry as Mycroft’s hand twists just as his fingers do. “Don’t want to come like this.” 

“I wasn’t planning on that,” Mycroft tells him. 

“Well then, if I were you I would get a move on, because I’m getting close.”

Mycroft chuckles behind him, but he gives Greg’s cock one last slippery pull before taking his hand away and wiping it on the towels underneath them. 

“How do you want this?” Mycroft continues to scissor and twist his fingers inside as he leans over Greg’s back to speak just behind his ear. 

Greg leans into the heat of his breath, the hum of his voice. “I… Want to see you. That’s all I need. Doesn't matter how. Whatever you want. I want it to be so good for you.”

Mycroft kisses him sweetly, a sharp juxtaposition to the filthy grind of his fingers against Greg’s prostate. Greg whines into the kiss and nearly collapses down to the mattress to rut against the towels and just get himself off already. 

“Turn over,” Mycroft says gently, withdrawing his fingers. 

Greg hurries to do it, lifting his hips for Mycroft to shove pillows beneath even as he’s reaching for him, spreading his thighs and drawing them up, already trying to drag Mycroft close. 

“Slow down,” Mycroft murmurs, and Greg finally gets a good look at him. For all his teasing, for all the vaguely dominant demands, Mycroft looks a bit wrecked, actually. Not at all as cool and collected as he’d sounded. His eyes are so soft, clearly cataloging Greg’s every twitch and movement. “I have you. I'll take care of you.”

Greg’s breath catches. “I know,” he says. “Yeah, I know you will. Kiss me.”

Mycroft moves forward and does, lips sweet and careful on Greg’s, tongue slipping gently inside, stroking and teasing. It’s like they’ve turned on a dime, and all the games have fallen away. 

Greg barely notices the appearance of a condom. He just keeps letting himself be kissed, burying his shaking hands in Mycroft’s hair, clutching his shoulders with them, trying to ground himself somehow. It’s not until he feels the slick bump of Mycroft’s cock against the crease of his thigh that he realizes it’s finally going to happen. 

“Oh, please,” he murmurs, lips moving against Mycroft’s jaw as he speaks. He opens his legs a little further. “Please, Mycroft, now.”

“God,” Mycroft whispers, reaching down to guide himself in. He buries his face in Greg’s neck for the first press. Greg holds him there, fingers in his hair, and bears down with a cry he can’t quite stifle. “Are you—”

“Good,” Greg says quickly. “I’m good, don’t stop.”

And then Mycroft is in him, entirely, their thighs flush together and Greg’s heels pressing against the backs of Mycroft’s knees before dragging up, digging in to urge him deeper. Mycroft lifts his head and his eyes are a little wide, and very bright. “Tell me,” he prompts. 

“Slow,” Greg sighs. “Just slowly, for now.”

So Mycroft gives it to him slowly, simply rolling them together, grinding and gasping, lips catching here and there while Mycroft murmurs an endless stream of praise in Greg’s ear. 

Greg luxuriates in it. It’s only uncomfortable for a minute or so. He’s so thoroughly stretched and worked up that it’s easy to relax and adjust, and then it’s just _good._ Unbearably intimate and somehow still stunningly hot. 

“More,” He tells Mycroft after a while. “More, please, please just fuck me. Do it how you like it, sweetheart, please.”

Mycroft sits up, Greg’s arse practically held in his lap, and presses against his legs, hitches them higher, and he moves, long and thorough. “Touch yourself.” 

Greg moans. “God, I love how you just— tell me what to— _fuck.”_

Mycroft waits until Greg’s got a hand wrapped around himself before he pulls nearly all the way out and then thrusts back in hard, and Greg’s about to catch his breath when he does it again, and then again, and then again and again in a hard, steady rhythm. 

It’s perfect. It’s right where Greg needs it, and he gets to watch Mycroft’s eyes go glittery beneath his lowered lashes; gets to watch his flush spill down his neck and chest. 

“Harder,” Greg begs. 

Mycroft growls, leaning in close again, trapping Greg’s hand between them and shoving his thighs almost painfully high and wide. He fucks him harder, and kisses him deep and all-consuming. “I’m close,” he gasps into Greg’s mouth. “So close.”

“Yeah, good, come in me.” 

_“Fuck—”_

Oh, that nearly does it. Greg practically writhes with pleasure at hearing that word on Mycroft’s lips, harsh near Greg’s ear. 

“Come on,” he begs. “Please, baby, I want it— I want to feel you, come on.” 

Mycroft comes with a shout, the first non-silent orgasm Greg’s witnessed from him, and he moves through it, still shoving against Greg’s prostate with the last, shaking thrusts. 

“Just let me—” Greg holds Mycroft up with one hand on his chest, pressing him back, giving himself room to stroke himself fast and desperate. “Oh, god— oh, _fu—”_

Mycroft watches him come with avid concentration, eyes darting from Greg’s squeezing, twisting hand, to his face, to the streaks of come over his belly. “Beautiful,” he murmurs. “Greg— you’re—” 

Greg hauls him down for a kiss, the motion causing Mycroft’s softening cock to slip out, which is a little unpleasant, but that hardly matters when Greg has his arms full and his mouth occupied. 

“Stay here,” Mycroft tells him once they’ve come down a bit. “Yes? Don’t move a muscle?”

Greg could care less why he’s being told to do it, he simply nods. He’ll do whatever the hell Mycroft tells him to do, after all that. “Yeah. Okay.”

“Good.” Mycroft kisses him, then moves away. Greg hears him move to the loo - probably dealing with the condom before running the water - and then he returns. He pauses at the foot of the bed. “Really, don’t move. Don’t change a thing.” 

“I couldn’t move if I tried!” Greg pretends to wind up to throw a pillow at him. “Do what you must, Mycroft, but let me have my afterglow.”

Mycroft ducks out of the bedroom, taking his soft little laugh with him. 

  
  


***

  
  


Mycroft returns with bottled water, a bowl of cut fruit, and his new sketchbook and pencils. 

Greg’s eyes widen. “Wait—”

“Not a muscle,” says Mycroft. “It will only take a few minutes, and then you get a snack, you see?” He gestures at Greg with the bowl.

“I’m not a trained parrot,” Greg grouses with narrowed eyes. “You do realize that, right?”

Mycroft shrugs a noncommittal shoulder, and seats himself at the foot of the bed. “If you genuinely don’t want me to draw you like this, I won’t. I can cover you more, or not do it at all.”

“You can do whatever you like,” Greg says without needing to think. “I trust you.”

Mycroft pauses in the motions of opening the sketchbook and snapping open the pencil case, then clears his throat. “Thank you,” he murmurs. “Tilt your chin back just a little?”

Greg does, and then obeys a few more instructions: _rest your left leg lower - no, outside the sheet, leave it like that; relax the hands; close your eyes._

“Are you including the come I have all over me in this drawing?”

“Yes, of course,” Mycroft murmurs absently. “It's very fetching.”

“You’re a bit pervy.” Greg smiles to himself. “Good to know.”

“And you aren’t?”

“Hmmm. Wouldn’t _you_ like to know?”

Mycroft scoffs. “I know everything, remember?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Greg fights the urge to wriggle and fidget. “You realize you sound like Sherlock when you get bossy and up your own arse?”

“Well, we share DNA and childhood trauma, so it only follows that our coping mechanisms are similar.”

Greg opens his eyes to take in Mycroft’s head, bent over the sketchbook, his hand moving in precise sweeps. “What’re you coping with right now?”

Mycroft clears his throat and glances up. “Eyes closed.”

Greg closes his eyes. 

“I’m slightly overwhelmed by you,” Mycroft murmurs after a quiet stretch broken only by the scratch of his pencil. “I don’t mean to be… what was the delightful turn of phrase? Ah, yes - up my own arse.”

Greg grins. “Alright, don’t stress yourself out over it, sweetheart. You know I like you bossy and confident, right? Who wouldn’t?”

“A great many people.”

“Well, most people are idiots,” Greg says in a Sherlock-y monotone. 

Mycroft chuckles to himself. “Hm.”

“Sorry for teasing you like that,” Greg says. “I didn’t mean it.”

“Please do tease me,” Mycroft replies. “Hardly anyone does. I like it.”

Greg breathes deep, a little worried that if he lounges here with his eyes shut for much longer, he’s going to fall asleep and then he’ll end up with a fairly dire dried-come-chest-hair combination later. 

“I think I’m starting to figure you out,” he says, slurring a little with tiredness. “Just so you know.”

“Are you, indeed?”

“Mm. You’re still a romantic. Just look at us now. Drawing me like one of your French girls. Taking me on dates to the kitchen. Unbelievable.”

Mycroft laughs. “You may open your eyes,” he says. “I can finish the details later. We should get cleaned up.”

Greg opens his eyes and rises up on his elbows. “Can I see it?”

Mycroft nods and passes the sketchbook over silently, the only indicator that he’s nervous being the twist of his pencil between his fingers. 

Greg’s breath catches the moment he looks down. “Oh,” he says. 

“It’s just a rough sketch—”

“Shh, it’s fantastic.” Greg waves him off. “I… Well I look alright.” 

When Greg looks up, Mycroft’s giving him one of those cute little smiles. 

“Yes, you do,” he says, clearly choosing to say that instead of something else. He takes the sketchbook back. “A snack and then a shower?”

“Yeah,” Greg agrees. “Can I see your other sketchbook later? More drawings?”

Mycroft nods, setting the new book aside. “Of course.”

  
  


***

  
  


Still damp from the shower, Greg insists that now is a great time to sit down and look at the other sketchbook. Part of him worries Mycroft will put him off if he lets it wait. He’s gone over a little shy again, since he showed Greg the sketch in the bedroom. A bit ironic, since it was a drawing of Greg, who was naked, having just fallen apart begging under Mycroft. Greg wonders if maybe showing the drawings to him was just as vulnerable an action, for Mycroft. 

Once they’re settled in with tea and Maddie on the sofa, Mycroft rests the leather bound sketchbook over both their laps, then opens it. There is a stack of loose paper on top, and Greg knows from the very first one that yes, this is Mycroft being vulnerable. 

The sketch is done on a piece of paper ripped off a hotel notepad, and shows a scene drawn from above. A courtyard below a hotel room. Children chasing each other in the snow. Their footprints reveal aimless, unpredictable and criss-crossing patterns. There are vague shapes of snow angels. 

It’s soft, but it’s distant. Greg’s heart clenches for reasons he can’t pin down into specifics. It’s like he can feel the wistfulness there, and he isn’t sure if it’s that Mycroft is a man who always wanted to have his own child to watch running around in the snow, or if it’s because Mycroft was a child who never got to be that free. 

Or maybe it’s just that Mycroft hated being cooped up in a hotel, who knows. 

The next bit of paper is from a legal pad, and the drawing there is of the fucking Prime Minister, of all people, nodding off in a meeting. 

Greg laughs. “Oh, classic.”

“I hate that man,” Mycroft says, casual. “Truly.”

“You didn’t do him any favors,” Greg says, meaning the unflattering lines and angles in the drawing. But he wonders how true it is in the political sense. He thinks it’s probably best to move on. 

There are more legal pad drawings - cups sat on top of rings of spilled coffee and beside crumpled sugar packets; Anthea reading with a pair of glasses shoved up into her hair like a headband, thumb pressed thoughtfully to her lower lip; Mycroft’s own shoes on his feet, legs crossed at the ankle. There are a couple of napkins - little doodles of logos and even one of a news presenter. 

The first page of the actual sketchbook is Sherlock. Greg nearly gasps at the sharpness of it, the realism. 

“That’s from Christmas. The year before Rosie Watson was born.”

Translation: the day Sherlock murdered a man. The year before Mary Watson died. 

The context makes Sherlock’s unreadable expression a little more chilling. Greg turns the page. 

“Rosie Watson,” Mycroft murmurs. “One week old.”

“You did this from memory?”

“Mm, yes.”

Greg hovers his fingers over the little cupid’s bow of her lips. “Gorgeous,” he says, and turns the page. “This is me,” he says - even though it isn’t. It isn’t his face. It’s his hands on a steering wheel. But it’s _his_ steering wheel, in _his_ car. He knows it is. That’s his scar, on his thumb, from when he tried to catch a falling wine glass and it broke on the way down from the shelf, slicing him open. 

“Yes,” Mycroft says. 

It’s a little vignette of a drawing, and then there’s another, catty corner, on the page, of some sort of nautical… thing. Rope tied around an anchor, or something. 

“I did that after the night at Sherrinford,” Mycroft says. “John and Sherlock and I stole a boat.” 

Greg blinks. “Wait, what?”

Mycroft just smiles, enigmatic as you please. 

The next page is a house, which Mycroft tells him belongs to his parents, and then one after that is a different house, which Mycroft explains belongs to him and is located in France. Greg bites his tongue so as not to make a joke about wanting to see it in person, because it wouldn’t be a joke, and he feels he should shy away from bringing up life outside of the safe house for a while yet. 

“This is me again,” Greg says, unable to resist smiling. “Younger, though. Look at my hair! From memory?”

“Yes,” Mycroft says, a bit tightly. “I finished this one a month or so ago.”

Greg glances up, and sighs at the nervous posture and worried eyes. “Hey, you already did the awkward crush confession. It’s fine. I’m pleased as punch, to be honest.”

“You don’t find it… off-putting? Obsessive?”

“It’s one or two drawings. Are there others?”

Mycroft glances away. “Not...many.”

Greg grins. “It’s not like, a whole room in your house, right?”

Mycroft rolls his eyes and moves to grab the folio. “Sketchbook privileges can be revoked—” he says stiffly, but he’s joking. 

Greg’s _delighted,_ not only that Mycroft jokes like that with him, but that Greg can read it so easily already. He leans up and presses a kiss to Mycroft’s twitchy cheek. “You wouldn’t dare,” he murmurs. “You’re liking the attention.”

Mycroft huffs. _“No.”_

“Seriously though, don’t worry. Are there any more of me in here?”

“No,” Mycroft says, less belligerent this time. “Not to belabor the point, but I did not _pine.”_

Greg slips an arm around Mycroft’s back and turns the page. 

“Oh,” he breathes. “Sherlock.”

“Mm.” 

This page contains several vignette sketches. A baby, a pair of little toddler hands cupped around a frog, sparkling little boy eyes under a mop of dark curls. Pre-adolescent eye rolling with an unstudied sneer. 

“Wow, he was cute.” Greg nudges Mycroft with an elbow. “Were you this cute as a kid?”

Mycroft barks a laugh. “No, not remotely.”

“Think you’re probably biased.” Greg turns the page, and then again, and again. 

There’s a sketch of Burj Khalifa rising out of the Dubai skyline. Mycroft won’t tell Greg when he went to the UAE. There’s a blurry rendering of London in the rain. Several of Anthea, two of them clearly posed. A woman Mycroft tells Greg is his mother. Another of Rosie Watson poised over a slice of birthday cake, hands pressed to her cheeks in amazement. 

That’s the last one. Rosie’s birthday had been just a month ago. Greg got called out on a case twenty minutes in. “We missed each other,” he says. “I had to leave before cake.”

“I know.” Mycroft closes the folio and sets it on the coffee table. “I was disappointed.”

Greg leans his head back on Mycroft’s arm, which is stretched along the sofa behind Greg’s shoulders. “Not only are you a romantic, you’re a bit of a melodramatic sort of thing, aren’t you?. Why did you never ask me out?”

Mycroft opens his mouth, but pauses over the words. “I…” his lips purse and he shakes his head. “I’m not a particularly brave person.”

Greg shows his regard for that statement with a rude noise and a wave of his hand, then climbs into Mycroft’s lap. “That kiss in the kitchen disagrees with you. Bloody _hell.”_

Mycroft looks up at him, soft-eyed and smiling, and the most real and unguarded Greg has seen him so far. 

It’s around that moment, as Greg leans in for a kiss, that he decides that he can’t leave this house without asking Mycroft to keep this going once they leave. He simply can’t.

  
  



	9. Birds Do It, Bees Do It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience, my dears! It's been a long couple days and the next chapters ahead were giving me a hard time shaping up, but I think we're on track!

It’s good that the only one around to witness the absolute disgrace that is two men who can’t stop going at it like horny teenagers is a cat who only seems delighted to have two laps to lay across. 

Greg swears he’s never caught so many hot little looks from anyone in his life. He’s sure he’s never given so many, either. 

Mycroft seems fixated on the way Greg’s hair looks when he’s all sweaty from the gym, fingers mussing it every chance he gets while Greg tries his hand at making smoothies after their workout. 

Greg can’t stop staring at Mycroft’s lips around the straw while they drink them. 

Mycroft shoots Greg a glance so suggestive during a game of Smash Bros that Greg genuinely worries that Yoshi does it for him. 

Eventually, Greg excuses himself to the kitchen to fix a cuppa, hoping to get a grip - _not_ literally - on himself before he ends up looking like a clingy sex monster or— 

But Mycroft follows him in and it turns out the kitchen workbench is just the right height for him to bend Greg over and rim him to within an inch of his life. 

So, Greg stops feeling weird about it. 

“We could just give up the pretense and not leave the bed in the morning,” he tells Mycroft once they’ve stumbled to the bedroom so Greg can return the favor of one magnificent orgasm with another. 

Mycroft groans and buries his face in Greg’s side. He’s somehow managed to twist down the bed, and has been counting Greg’s very few freckles. “I promise you, I am not always this…”

“Handsy? Horny? Insatiable? Sex-crazed? Do you think I have complaints?” 

Mycroft laughs and slides up, curling into Greg’s side and resting his head on his own tucked-up arm so they can look at each other properly. “I don’t think you have complaints. I simply… worry.” 

For a split second, Greg lets himself think that this means something awful: Mycroft worries that it’s only good like this because they’re stuck here. Worries that it won’t be as good when they leave. Mycroft worries that they were actually infected with some weird sex pollen in that lab and this is all— 

But the man has had a thing for Greg for _over a decade._

“Worry?” Greg prompts, telling his anxious heart to stop overreacting. 

“I don’t want you to think this is the extent of what I want.” Mycroft winces. “I also don’t want to speak too much on that topic, because I don’t wish to burden you with expectations, or—” 

“I don’t feel burdened.” Greg says. “And this isn’t the extent of it for me, either.” He slips closer, tangles their legs together. “Make a deal? We can lay all that out on… let’s say the day before we leave. If we aren’t both dead of embarrassment when Anthea comes to fetch us the next day, then great.”

Mycroft laughs, surprisingly light. “That sounds fair enough.”

“Good.” Greg nods, feeling pretty smart about this plan. “Four more days, and we’ll talk about it. Plan it all out. Til then… wild and crazy sex holiday continues.” 

Mycroft turns onto his back, dragging Greg’s arm over and across his own chest. He strokes a hand over it, like it’s a familiar, well-worn action. Like they’ve done this a thousand times and will do it a million more. “Very well. Four days.”

Greg swallows down his hope. “Yep,” he says. “Great.”

  
  


***

  
  


Of course, he realizes later that he’s an idiot. Now there’s a timer over their heads, ticking down. 

He watches Mycroft carry Maddie with her little paws on his shoulder, talking to her as he studies the bookshelves for something to read, and he’s both horrendously hot for him, and queasy with a stubborn sense of uncertainty and anticipation. 

Mycroft shows him how to make pizza dough, and Greg fixates on his hands, and on what he’s going to say to Mycroft three days from now. 

_I’m in love with you, please let’s live together. We already know it would be great._

_You’re so lovely and funny and shockingly toppy in bed, really creative and fun for someone who is usually a bit tightly wound. I’m never gonna find anyone just like you and I don’t want to try. Let’s get_ married. 

_I would listen to you read the phone book. What are the odds we can live in this safehouse forever? What if we pretend to get sick? Will Anthea leave us here? Let’s do that._

Mycroft presses a kiss to his cheek. “You’re miles away,” he murmurs. 

Greg catches him around the waist before he can move away for the next step in the pizza-making process, and hugs him tight. “Thanks for showing me this. I know I’m no help.”

Mycroft hugs him back, hands a little tentative and confused on Greg’s back. “You are my taste tester,” he says. “The most important of jobs.”

Greg thinks: _You should’ve been someone’s husband. Someone’s_ dad. _I can’t give you the second thing, sorry, but one out of two is pretty good, right?_

“Well, in that case,” Greg says, forcing himself to stop fixating long enough to actually enjoy this. “About that sauce…”

They end up kissing tomato sauce off each other’s cheeks, a little mishap with the spoon having led to the perfect opportunity for more touching. 

Greg watches Mycroft set the oven timer from over his shoulder, chin resting there and arms wrapped around him from behind. 

_Seriously, I love this, I love you, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck._

  
  


***

  
  


“I like your jeans,” Greg comments idly from the floor of the lounge, where he’s been dangling a feather for Maddie. “Have I mentioned?”

Mycroft turns a page in his book. “Your very subtle staring may have mentioned it for you.”

Greg grins at the cat and diplomatically says nothing about the fact that Mycroft is definitely blushing.

  
  


***

  
  


While Mycroft is in the office on a sit-rep call with Anthea, Greg texts his sister. 

**Greg Lestrade:** I’m so fucked.

 **Laura Murphy:** Literally, figuratively, psychologically?

 **Greg Lestrade:** Maybe all of them. 

**Laura Murphy:** LOL. I knew when you called the other day you sounded all lovey dovey. You’re having it off with that fancy government guy? Fantastic!

 **Greg Lestrade:** Yeah, it is fantastic. What if he dumps me when this is done?

 **Laura Murphy:** He won’t.

 **Greg Lestrade:** And you would know, how?

 **Laura Murphy:** Uh IDK Greg, you’re adorable and kind and fun to be around and??? Are we fishing for compliments? Fine, but I want some in return. 

**Greg Lestrade:** You are not hideous and not the most annoying person in the world. I like you well enough. I guess. 

**Laura Murphy:** Dick. Stop worrying. I’m glad you’re having fun ;-) 

**Greg Lestrade:** What if I say something stupid?

 **Laura Murphy:** Like?

 **Laura Murphy:** Greg??? Hello? Like what?

 **Laura Murphy:** Ohhhhh you love him. CUTE! Don’t say that yet, or you’ll sound insane. But cute!!!

 **Laura Murphy:** Earth to Gregoryyyyyy. Ah, you coward! 

  
  


***

  
  


“We should disgrace this sofa before we leave here,” Greg says as the credits roll on _The Maltese Falcon._ Mycroft had turned to him as the screen went dark, and immediately gone for Greg’s jaw and down his neck, lips hot and exploratory. Now they’re lying together, and Mycroft seems intent on taking Greg apart just by kissing his throat. 

“Hmm.” Mycroft’s response is absent, but possibly agreeable, as he sucks at Greg’s skin, his hands skimming Greg’s shirt up his belly. 

“I mean. It’s, um. Comfortable. I’ll remember it fondly,” Greg babbles, losing his breath as Mycroft gets his shirt shoved up under his armpits before abandoning his neck in favor of his chest. 

“Whatever you want,” Mycroft mutters, a line of kisses muffling his words as they travel gently down the center of Greg’s breastbone and then to the side, curving under his left pectoral. “Of course.”

“I’d like a pony,” Greg breathes. “And one million euro in small bills.”

“Mmhmm.”

Greg grins down at Mycroft’s intent face - what he can see of it anyway, which is mostly eyebrows. “You’re not listening to me.”

“I won’t be distracted,” Mycroft replies, and closes his mouth over Greg’s nipple while teasing the other ever so carefully with his fingers.   
  
Greg arches into the touches with a moan. “You— Um, okay. Yeah. Sorry. Won’t distract you.”

“Good,” Mycroft replies, lifting his head to grin up at him before returning to his task, licking and biting gently until Greg begins to tremble. 

Greg lets Mycroft move him this way and that, hauling him up to get his shirt off entirely, kissing him before laying him down again and prompting him to lift his hips so Mycroft can relieve him of his jeans. 

Eventually Greg’s entirely naked and Mycroft is still fully clothed in those sinfully worn jeans and a soft grey jumper he stole from Greg that morning. “When I said disgrace the sofa, I didn’t mean it had to be _now.”_

“There is no time like the present,” Mycroft says, sitting up to look down at where he’s splayed Greg across the cushions. “You do get a little red, with enough effort,” he observes, fingers tracing where he’s managed to bite and suck hard enough to leave marks. Nothing too deep, nothing that had hurt. But enough to get Greg all splotchy and marked. 

Greg feels a little abraded and very wound up, skin sensitized and wanting more. His cock has been hard against his belly for ages, and Mycroft hasn’t so much as glanced at it yet. Greg holds still, tries not to look too desperate even though he wants to writhe and beg for it. 

Mycroft’s eyes flick to Greg’s, and Greg can’t stop himself from sucking in a harsh breath. Christ, he’s so… Greg is so _into_ him, it’s painful. Here is Mycroft, having calmly taken Greg apart for the better part of an hour, saying all sorts of casually devastating things in the process, being bossy and expecting to be obeyed the entire time, without the slightest hint of uncertainty, but also without so much as the tiniest edge to any of it. It’s like their eyes get stuck on each other, and Mycroft’s face is open and sweet, a little disbelieving. 

Greg reaches for him and tugs him down by the collar of the sweater. They kiss, hot and heavy, and Mycroft grinds immediately against him, the combination of denim and hard flesh underneath working beautifully on Greg’s thighs and belly, which are a little raw from kisses and bites. Greg swallows a moan and gets his fingers up into the back of Mycroft’s hair, urging him to kiss him deeper, press as close as possible. 

“I love the way you touch me,” Greg sighs, and Mycroft’s hands immediately move, stroking down Greg’s sides to his hips, squeezing a little as if to ask: _Like this?_ “Yeah,” Greg says. 

“I love the way you let me,” Mycroft tells him, and hitches one of Greg’s legs up, wrapping it up and around his own hip. He uses it as leverage to rock them together, increasing the rough friction over Greg’s cock. They’re going to stain those jeans. 

“So sexy,” Greg tells him breathlessly, squeezing both thighs around Mycroft’s hips. “You’re so bloody— I’ve wanted you forever, but I _never_ would’ve guessed— Guessed _how good—_ ”

“Well, you are quite inspiring,” Mycroft teases faintly, pushing up onto one elbow and looking down at him. “Is this how you want to come?”

Greg makes an embarrassing, strangled sort of sound at the thought of roughly rubbing off against Mycroft’s clothes. But, actually, that’s not really what he wants. 

“Sit up,” he gasps. Mycroft does it immediately. Greg reaches out and hooks two fingers inside the waistband of those jeans, one side of his hand pressed to soft skin, the other to body-warm denim, and strokes himself with the other hand. All he wants is to see Mycroft’s face. Hear his voice. “Talk to me?”

Mycroft licks his lips. “After this I’m taking you into the bedroom,” he says. “I plan on fucking you until you’re hard again and making you come with only my cock. And I’m going to do it wearing these jeans when I do it, because you clearly have some sort of fetish—”

Greg laughs and cries out at the same time, hand twisting over himself at the mental image of Mycroft draped over him, cock pressing inside while the zip of the jeans digs into Greg’s thigh. “Fuck, yes,” he gasps. “Then what?”

“I’ll come all over your lovely skin,” Mycroft murmurs, fingers pressing into one of the more enthusiastic love bites at the base of Greg’s throat. “All over these marks. Then I’ll draw you again, when you are dripping with both of us. Is that what you want?” His fingers tweak over Greg’s nipples.

 _Yes._ Greg gasps and jerks into his own grip. “Mycroft—”

Mycroft slides down and gets his mouth over Greg’s cock, catching the first of his orgasm on his tongue. 

Greg shakes, can’t control himself or his thoughts or his mouth. God knows what he says to Mycroft as he dies a thousand little deaths at the mercy of his mouth. 

“I’ve never—” Mycroft buries the words against Greg’s rib cage. “I’ve never felt this way before.” 

Greg threads his shaky fingers in Mycroft’s hair. “What way?”

“Lucky.”

That knocks the air right out of Greg’s lungs. “God, Mycroft,” he says. “Me, too.”

***

**Greg Lestrade:** I’m not so sure it would sound all that crazy, at this point. 

**Laura Murphy:** Gross, Greg. 

**Greg Lestrade:** You wouldn’t believe it, L. He’s amazing. He’s such a good man. 

**Laura Murphy:** And clearly has you completely dickmatized. 

**Greg Lestrade:** You aren’t allowed to say things like that to me, your BROTHER.

 **Laura Murphy:** Get over yourself. Well I want to meet him, so when can I?

 **Greg Lestrade:** I don’t know. I don’t know whats going to happen when we finally get out of here. 

**Laura Murphy:** You realize that you’re talking to me on a tiny computer right now, yeah? We have the technology, G. FACETIME ME!

 **Greg Lestrade:** We’ll see. 

**Laura Murphy:** Is he hot? Like the brother?

 **Greg Lestrade:** Don’t be disgusting, Sherlock looks like a praying mantis. 

**Laura Murphy:** HA!

 **Greg Lestrade:** He’s lovely. Really, really lovely. Swear to god. 

**Laura Murphy:** Jesus, you’re a mess. Wait, what’s his name?? You never said.

 **Greg Lestrade:** Mycroft. 

**Laura Murphy:** Oh, ffs. 

**Laura Murphy:** OF COURSE IT IS. 

  
  


***

  
  


Greg finds Mycroft back in that corner of the sofa with the cat and the blanket, and doesn't ask before crawling into the bubble of quiet with them. He rests his cheek against Mycroft’s shoulder and reads a little of the book in his lap. 

Mycroft’s lips press to Greg’s forehead. 

Greg turns and kisses the mark he sucked into Mycroft’s neck in a bit of payback.

He dozes like that, with Maddie turning in circles in his lap before she lies down. He vaguely registers Mycroft beginning to read out loud. 

  
  



	10. The Fire of Confession

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This might be my favorite chapter so far.

They’re cleaning up after breakfast - Mycroft is washing, Greg is drying - when Greg’s mobile rings. 

“Literally everyone I know knows that I’m here,” he mutters. “Still, I’m surprised no one’s called me so far - Oh. It’s. Your brother?”

Mycroft shuts off the water and dries his hands. “You may as well answer,” he says. “You know he won’t give up easily if you ignore it. I’ll wipe down the bench.”

“Well I’m taking the call in here,” Greg says over his ringtone. “In case I need backup.”

Mycroft laughs. “Fine, but I’m surprised that you think he would listen to me about anything at all.”

Greg answers the Facetime call as he sinks down into a chair at the kitchen table. He knows that Mycroft will be perfectly visible behind him. 

“Sherlock, this had better be an apology call. You’re _ten days late,_ but—”

“Where on _Earth_ are you, Lestrade?” Sherlock wrinkles his nose, leaning in close to his laptop camera. “Is that my _brother?”_

Greg sighs. “We’re still in isolation after you collapsed a laboratory on our heads, you berk.”

“That?” Sherlock scowls. “It was a minor explosion, and you are both clearly fine.” 

“What do you _want,_ Sherlock?”

“You’re having sexual intercourse with my brother.” 

Greg watches in the little window on his phone as Mycroft drops the cloth he was using to clean up the worktop. Greg winces. Mycroft leans forward, hands clenched tight on the edge of the counter. Greg’s eyes flick back to Sherlock on the screen, and he makes a decision. 

“So?” Greg shrugs. 

Sherlock blinks. 

Mycroft turns to face him, surprised, and Greg smiles at their little images on his phone. 

“Anyway, Sherlock,” Greg says, “What did you want? It’s just after breakfast and I have plans for the day, you know how it is.” 

Sherlock grimaces. “I’m merely calling for you to have a look at a photograph. Tell me if you recognize the face. I’m working a private case, and something about this man seems familiar.”

“And you don’t remember exactly who he is, where he lives, and what he likes for lunch on Tuesdays? Didn’t save that information to the old mind palace?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes as, somewhere in the background, John barks a laugh. 

“Oh! John’s home!” Greg grins, searching the background as obviously as he can, just to get Sherlock’s goat. “Hello, John! Come say hi, it’s been oh, ten days, give or take! An age!”

“You are not funny,” Sherlock grouses, as John appears over his shoulder with Rosie on his hip. 

“Hey, Greg.” John shoots him an apologetic little smile and the usual _you know how he is_ tilt of the head. “Oh, and Mycroft! Hope you’re both bearing up well.”

“They’ve been having sex.”

Mycroft sighs and crosses the kitchen, leaning over Greg’s chair so that their faces occupy the front facing camera, side by side. “Sherlock,” he warns. 

“Well, that’s great!” John appears to be biting down on a laugh. “Congratulations, then.” 

Rosie sways forward out of her father’s grasp a bit, extending a chubby hand toward Sherlock’s laptop. 

“No, darling—” John snags her hand. 

“Heeey,” Greg draws the word out. “Rosie-the-big-girl! Gorgeous, what’s shakin’? Tell your dad to give your Sherlock there a whack on the head for me, yeah?”

Mycroft’s hand lands low on Greg’s arm, out of frame of the camera, and gives him a squeeze. Greg meets his eyes on the screen and winks. 

“Don’t listen to him, Watson,” Sherlock sniffs. “Lestrade, _really,_ time is of the—”

“Show us the photo, then,” Greg cuts him off mid-strop. “I already told you that _I_ have plans.” 

Mycroft’s fingers tease, a little ticklish, at the inside of Greg’s elbow, and Greg leans back into him just a bit, shoulders brushing. If he turned his head he could kiss him on the cheek and really horrify Sherlock. But he doesn't want Mycroft feeling uncomfortable in the process. 

Sherlock rolls his eyes and taps at his mobile. “I’m texting it to you. Please get back to me as soon as possible.” 

Rosie bats at Sherlock’s curls, making impact with his face in the process. Sherlock catches her hand gently in his own and kisses it, probably forgetting Greg and Mycroft can see. Or, maybe it’s that he doesn't care.

Greg hears Mycroft’s breath catch. The latter, then. Greg turns and kisses him on the cheek while Sherlock isn’t looking. John is, and his eyebrows fly up, but he keeps his silence. 

“I’ll get back to you when I get back to you,” Greg tells Sherlock. To John, he says: “When we’re out of here, my offer from her birthday stands. Day in the park. A break for you, a little time with her for me. I miss when my nieces and nephew were tiny like that.” 

“Yeah of course.” John nods with enthusiasm, eyes darting for a moment, speculatively, to Sherlock. 

_Ooh,_ Greg thinks. _Sure, Uncle Greg babysits and you can finally put the moves on her stepfather. Nice._

“She’d love it,” John continues. “I’d appreciate it. You’d be welcome to join the fun, Mycroft.”

Mycroft seems to de-animate beside Greg, his entire body going very still, his distracted smile on pause as his eyes, watching Rosie make silly faces at Sherlock until now, dart to John. “Oh,” he says. “Really?”

John’s own smile eases. “Yeah, ‘course.” 

Mycroft nods, a bit stunned, and Greg needs to get off this call. 

“Alright, guys,” he says. “I’ll text soonish.”

“Yep, great,” John answers for Sherlock, who is reaching to take Rosie altogether, since she has a fistful of his hair. John reaches out to hang up, and Greg’s mobile informs him the call has ended. 

“Just give me one second,” Greg murmurs to Mycroft. “Here, come right here—” 

He turns a bit in his chair and tugs the neighboring one out from the table. 

“Sit.”

Mycroft sits, eyes turned inward and thinking while Greg swaps over to his text messages and Sherlock’s photo, his unoccupied hand reaching for one of Mycroft’s and holding it while he studies the mugshot. 

Greg looks up and smiles. “Kiss me,” he says. 

Mycroft kisses him. 

“I have to call Sally,” Greg tells him. “I should be able to get this sorted quickly. But I want to tell you, um… I’d really like it if you went with me and Rosie to the park. We can call it an Uncles-only day. It’ll be fun.”

Mycroft blinks. “I’m not her uncle.”

Greg feels himself melt a bit. “You’re more her uncle than I am,” he says. “And you’ll have a lovely time. Say you’ll come.”

Mycroft squeezes his hand. “Tell me when and where,” he says.

Greg’s heart stutters. There it is: the first real confirmation that they’ll see each other after this. Greg knows he shouldn’t worry about that - they’ve both said they want more than just what they’re doing while they’re limited to the safehouse. But these are _concrete plans._ They’ve both agreed that they’ll go. 

Greg leans in and snags one last kiss. “Okay,” he says. 

He dials Sally, and in the back of his head plans all the ways he’s going to be sweet to Mycroft today, making sure he knows he’s adored and desperately wanted, in hopes that he’ll remember it later, when they’re back out there in the real world where Mycroft thinks he’s disconnected from his brother’s life where Greg is not. Where he actually believes he is somehow the disappointing Holmes.

  
  


***

  
  


The call to Sally takes a lot longer than Greg planned. Actually, the entire thing turns into a bit of a mess. He ends up having to liaise with Dimmock and his team, too, and then do a really unpleasant conference call with them, Sally, and Sherlock. Then he’s back on with just Sherlock, a phone call this time.

“I can’t unruffle feathers or keep people from punching you when I’m in a bloody safe house, Sherlock.” Greg pinches the bridge of his nose. “You have to be _flexible_ and _work with people._ Dimmock likes you well enough, just don’t—”

Mycroft slides a plated sandwich in front of Greg and drops a kiss to the top of his head. 

Christ, it’s lunch time. That’s how long Greg has been on the phone trying to get everyone to play nice. He’s not even getting paid for this. 

Greg mouths a _thank you_ and then tunes back in to Sherlock’s complaints. 

“Look,” Greg says around a mouthful of food, “just figure it out. I got the guy’s ID verified for you, I got Dimmock to agree to work with you, since he’s been working a case involving that particular set of undesirables since last winter. I’ve done all I can for you, Sherlock, and I’m getting a headache.”

“You just want to go so you can defile my brother,” Sherlock says, followed by an exaggerated gag. 

Mycroft, putting his own lunch plate into the sink, mutters something under his breath. 

Greg bites down on a fond smile. “Bye, Sherlock,” he says. 

He hangs up, and before he can so much as turn to Mycroft, his mobile rings again. 

“Jesus,” he mutters. It’s Sally’s name on the display again. 

Mycroft shoots Greg a commiserating look. “It’s alright,” he says. “Thank her for her help, have a friendly chat so she doesn't feel badly used. I’ll be in the lounge.”

Greg smiles. “I’ll be with you soon,” he says. “Kiss?”

Mycroft grants him one on his way out of the kitchen, a peck - casual, as if they do that all the time. 

Greg answers the call. “Hey Sal, sorry. Listen, you’re a superstar…”

  
  


***

  
  


Greg finds Mycroft in the lounge, stretched over the sofa cushions with Maddie lying against his side. They’re both asleep. 

Greg doesn't want to disturb them, so he takes a walk back to the library, planning to read in the quiet. What he ends up doing is staring out of one of the few windows in the safe house - they don’t open, and since they need to look like boring office windows from the outside, they aren’t very pretty windows. The view leaves a lot to be desired, too - a gated car park - empty - and the back side loading docks of two other boring office buildings. Mycroft had told him they were both empty save for some government security personnel. 

Still, though it isn’t pretty, the view to the world outside helps Greg process some of his thoughts. 

He _should_ introduce Mycroft to Laura. As soon as possible. He should be mentioning the time after they leave this little bubble, and more often. Sure, they’ve decided not to do a lot of heavy talk about it. But Greg can feel himself doubting and coming up with reasons that it won’t work, why Mycroft won’t want it. And he wonders if Mycroft is having the same sort of thoughts. 

They’ve both been without this sort of thing for a long time. Mycroft possibly for even longer than Greg. 

Greg doesn't know how to trust it. Not that he thinks Mycroft is the type to cheat, or even to say anything he doesn't actually mean. But he worries that Mycroft will… hold back. Because that’s what Greg’s hindbrain is screaming at him to do. Pull back. Protect himself a little more. 

He doesn't think he can, though, so… may as well go entirely in the other direction. Right?

The bleak landscape of asphalt and grey concrete block doesn't exactly inspire any epiphanies. 

The sound of Mycroft’s sleepy voice calling for him from the hall…

That works for him. 

  
  


***

  
  


“When you were in your crazy Uni days,” Greg wonders out loud that evening, the screensaver for the blu-ray player bouncing around the television screen, “did you ever play spin the bottle?”

Mycroft, lying stretched on the sofa above where Greg lounges on the floor, having been cruelly abandoned by Maddie in the middle of a game of chase-the-feather, laughs. “No, I rather preferred not to be socially pressured into kissing women.”

“Fair enough,” Greg says. “Anything like that? Creepy ouija board things? Truth or dare?”

Mycroxft rolls to the side in order to look down at him. “Are you joking?”

“Not really. For all I know, posh boarding schools and Oxford are nothing but slumber party games and hair braiding.”

Mycroft sniffs at him. “I went to Cambridge.”

Greg grins. “My apologies, how insulting of me.” 

“Not really.” Mycroft’s lips twitch, but he keeps his haughtiness in place. “The universities are comparable. Everyone expected me to go to Oxford, but Cambridge happens to be the furthest from my parents’ home. Therefore—”

“Therefore you got as far away as you could, even if it was just a matter of swinging a bit further north.”

“Precisely.”

Greg reaches for him. “Come down here.”

“To the floor?” Mycroft quirks an eyebrow and rolls away, back flat on the sofa cushions. “No. _You_ come up _here.”_

“I _dare_ you to come snog me on the floor right now.”

There is a silence. 

“Mycroft,” Greg sing-songs. “Come on, you know you want to.”

Mycroft clears his throat. “I’ll pass on the dare for now. Ask me for a truth instead.”

Greg blinks up at the high ceiling of the lounge, taking a moment to catch on. Once he gets it, he can’t help smiling, charmed. “Hmmm,” he stalls. “I want a really juicy truth. I hope you realize what you’re signing on for.”

“I am quite aware.”

Greg wants to see his face, but he thinks, if they’re going to do this silly but - by its nature - sort of uncomfortably personal game, it might help to let Mycroft stare up the ceiling for a while, too. 

“Did you ever want to go anywhere other than Oxford or Cambridge?”

“Oh, yes.” 

Greg’s surprised at the immediate answer, but he bites his tongue and waits for more information. 

“I had idle fantasies of studying art or history and becoming a professor in America.” Mycroft sighs, and Greg wonders if he’s closed his eyes, picturing it. 

Greg has. He can see it easily. A much softer Mycroft, no suits - except for fancy receptions, of course, do history professors do those? Maybe art openings. Maybe jackets with _elbow patches._ The Hollywood ideal of a bookish professor. Greg has to hold in a swoony sigh at the mental image. “You would have been great as a professor,” he says. “Would you have been very strict or would you be the sort everyone wanted to come to with their questions?” 

“I think when I was younger I would have ended up somewhere in between,” Mycroft muses. “I’ve never been the best at _people,_ but I suppose I would have had to learn to be… likable. Or… accessible.” 

“You’re very likable,” Greg says loyally, but he knows what Mycroft means. 

“Mm,” Mycroft hums, doubtful. “Alright, Inspector, truth or dare?”

Greg chuckles and reaches up a hand. “Pass us a throw pillow?”

Mycroft hands one over silently, and Greg works it under his head, wriggling to get comfortable on the floor. 

“Truth,” Greg says after a moment. 

Mycroft is quiet, contemplating his question. From his position beside the sofa, Greg can see just his elbow and the steeple of his fingers over his chest. The fingers tap together in thought. “Who was your first love?”

Greg’s eyebrows fly up, even as he answers instantly. “There were two, at the exact same time. Richie Lazslo and Karen Potter. Karen and I were an item all through secondary school, and I was dead sure I would marry her the second we were old enough. Richie moved into a flat over the laundrette down the road from my Nan’s when I was sixteen. _Gorgeous._ Knocked me for six, _jesus,_ I didn’t know _what_ was happening in my head.”

Mycroft stays quiet, letting Greg prattle on. 

“It’s the only time I ever cheated - poor Karen.” Greg winces. “I’m still ashamed of myself. I never told her, but I did break up with her. Broke my own heart _and_ hers. But, well.” he sighs at the memory of his lovely childhood sweetheart’s confused, hurt expression when he ended it. The faint image of Richie’s twisted lips when Greg said he couldn’t see him anymore - he felt too guilty to keep it up. Richie thought it was self-hatred over the fact he was a bloke. Greg hadn’t bothered to correct him, too cowardly to admit he’d been with a girl the entire time - that he loved her too and felt lower than pond scum for lying to them both. “It was one of those things you learn from.”

“Did you ever speak to either of them again?”

“Yeah.” Greg winces. “Karen’s great, she actually married my best mate a few years later, if you can believe. I had fallen out of touch with both of them when I left the neighborhood, but ran into her at a pub almost ten years later. We’re friends on Facebook. They moved to Kent. Four kids.” 

“And Richie?” 

Greg closes his eyes and breathes. “Died. Pneumonia, officially. I was twenty. He would’ve been twenty-three. I heard from Nan, and not in a nice way.” 

Mycroft’s breath catches. “...oh.”

“Mm.” Greg sighs. “Anyway. Did you ever talk to Andrew after you broke up?”

Mycroft makes an uncomfortable sound. “Often. He’s… professionally adjacent to my work. I see him three or four times a year on average.”

“Bet that was rough in the beginning.”

_“Very.”_

Greg reaches up and runs a finger up from Mycroft’s sharp elbow to his shoulder, cupping it in his hand and giving a little squeeze. Mycroft catches his hand and kisses it, though Greg can’t see that part. Mycroft keeps hold of Greg’s hand, trapping it against his own chest. 

“Truth or dare,” Greg says into the ensuing silence. 

“Truth.” Mycroft huffs. “I don’t know what we could dare each other to do in a safe house.”

“I could think of a thing or two,” Greg says, the leer implied in his voice since Mycroft can’t see his face, and laces their fingers together. “Anyway - what’s the stupidest thing you ever did when you were at Uni?”

“Oh, _god,”_ Mycroft’s hand spasms in Greg’s. “I would like to pass on this question.”

“Well, you can - but then I’ll have to give you a dare, and it won’t be a sexy one. Fair warning.”

Mycroft groans. “I did _many_ stupid things at Uni, most of them with names like _Richard_ and _Marcus_ and,” he shudders dramatically, _“Lewis.”_

Greg smiles to himself. “I think I like the idea of you being a bit of a heartbreaker.”

“Hardly.” Mycroft traces patterns between Greg’s fingers with his own. “If anything, mine was more often the broken heart, though at the time I didn’t see it that way. I was rather intent on pretending not to _have_ feelings - a habit I have yet to break. I still do it. Frequently.”

Greg tries not to read it as a warning, as a _Just so you know, if you’re going to get involved with me,_ but he can’t help but hear it that way. If Mycroft meant it to put Greg off him, he hasn’t succeeded. Part of Greg is happy to latch onto it as a roundabout confirmation that they’re getting involved long-term. And another part of him is a bit embarrassed that he finds the Holmes emotional constipation _endearing_ at this point in his life. 

_Oh well,_ he thinks. _Can’t be helped now._

“It’s no wonder you do,” Greg says out loud. “Pretend, I mean. There’s been a change in you, though. Since everything happened.”

Mycroft sighs, the rise and fall of his chest moving their clasped hands along with it. “Yes,” he says. 

“I’m not saying it was for better or worse. Just saying. You’ve seemed… different. More open. I don’t think we would’ve ended up alone together in that lab if you hadn’t been. I think a year or so ago, I would’ve been on the phone with you, trying to dig through charts and files, listening to things crashing about on the other side of the doors. You would’ve been listening when the bloody ceiling fell in, not standing next to me.”

“It’s true.”

Greg chews his lip, wondering how to say this without crossing the line into prying. “Are things better between you and Sherlock?”

“Yes.” Mycroft says it with certainty. “Very much so. To be honest, had things been this peaceful between my brother and I over the years, I never would have kept my interferences in his life as distant as I have. Or as heavy-handed. He… lets me near him, now.” 

“You let him let you,” Greg says pointedly. “You’ve been a lot nicer to him, I’ve noticed.”

 _“Nicer.”_ Mycroft laughs. “I am not nice to Sherlock.”

“Whatever you say,” Greg teases with another squeeze of his hand around Mycroft’s.

Mycroft clears his throat after a moment. “Anyway,” he says, sly. “If I had to choose, I would say the _stupidest_ thing I ever did was fuck my philosophy lecturer three weeks before end-of-term exams in my final year.” 

Greg squawks and has to pretend to be scandalized for a bit, and then he tries to drag all the dirty details out of Mycroft’s tight lips - he is unsuccessful, but now will never give up - before they settle and continue to play the game. 

They both keep choosing ‘truth,’ and the questions keep coming. 

Mycroft asks Greg if he misses his ex-wife: “Christ, no,” Greg laughs. “I miss being married. I miss the girl I met, and the lovely woman I proposed to, I suppose. But my marriage was doomed from the start and she turned into a person I can’t ever like again, let alone _miss._ Ugh.”

Greg asks Mycroft if he’s ever broken the law: “Many times, none of which I can repeat to you, except for the first, which was a crime committed at the tender age of seven. I stole sweets from the corner shop down the road from the vacation cottage my parents rented when Eurus was a baby. They were quite occupied with her, and I was left to my own devices. I felt my pocket money allowance was unfair. I… have a sweet tooth.”

Once Greg stops laughing and kissing Mycroft’s knuckles over and over, Mycroft asks: “And you?”

Greg grins against the back of Mycroft’s hand and proceeds to tell him all about the time he got nicked for graffiti and got absolutely reamed out by his Nan until she found out he’d been painting over neo-Nazi filth someone had done earlier the same night. 

“The copper who caught me was nice,” Greg reminisces. “Suggested I might want to start thinking about career paths.”

Mycroft rolls off the sofa eventually, landing sprawled all over Greg on the floor. 

“I would’ve come up there,” Greg informs him, though he’s smiling up into Mycroft’s somewhat-sleepy eyes. “You’re very dramatic.”

“Family trait,” Mycroft dismisses. “Tell me a secret.”

“You didn’t say ‘truth or dare,’” Greg jokes. 

“Tell me a secret,” Mycroft repeats, almost a whisper. Their lips are close together. They can’t even make eye contact from this close together. 

It makes Greg feel bold. “Alright,” he says. “I’m afraid of scaring you off with how much I like you.”

Mycroft smiles, and it’s sweet and unguarded until he buries it in Greg’s neck. 

“Truth or dare,” Greg prompts.

“Dare,” Mycroft says, muffled against Greg’s skin. 

“Dare you to go to dinner with me when this is over.”

Mycroft kisses him sweetly on the throat. “Yes.”

Greg holds him, and the talking seems to have reached its end at that point, making way for languid kisses and wandering hands. 

They make it to the bedroom, eventually.

  
  



	11. Too Soon To Know

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're going to read the first bit of this and go "Wait what?"  
> Just keep going.  
> I'm still on the fluff train.  
> No worries on the fluff train.

It’s not so much that they have a disagreement the next morning…

But Greg doesn't know what else he can call it. It’s as if they both wake up on the wrong side of the bed and everything feels… off. 

He thinks Mycroft is short with him in the morning when they’re figuring out breakfast - one-word answers that rub the wrong way. He brushes it off, figuring it’s just pre-caffeine prickliness on his own part, reading too much into things. But then Mycroft demands, a few minutes later, to know what’s wrong, in the most accusatory tone Greg’s ever heard out of him outside of arguments with Sherlock. 

Greg, baffled, insists nothing is wrong, but Mycroft responds to _that_ with narrowed eyes, like he doesn't believe it, which gets Greg’s back up. 

_“What?”_ Greg demands, clutching a carton of eggs to his chest and feeling like he’s been dissected and pinned open under that gaze. “I said I’m _fine.”_

Mycroft looks away. “As you say,” he murmurs. 

Greg gives up on eggs and starts on toast instead, unwilling to make a joke about Mycroft doing the cracking and Greg doing the whisking. 

Breakfast is silent and weirdly strained, with minimal eye contact. 

_What the fuck,_ Greg thinks. 

He wonders if it’s all the confessions that came forth during their little game of Truth or Truth the night before. 

He wonders if Mycroft’s been put off him somehow. He wonders if he’s been put off Mycroft and just hasn’t noticed. He doesn't _think_ so. All he knows is that Mycroft is stiff when he tells Greg that he’s going to have to work from the phone through til the afternoon, and he leaves the kitchen without a kiss, which - Greg shouldn’t expect that, but… _What the fuck?_

He takes himself to the gym and runs until he feels a little unwell, then eats a huge plate of leftover pasta over the sink while he’s still dripping sweat everywhere. He leaves the plate in the sink and the detritus of his water glass and the container from the fridge on the counter, planning to get it after a shower. 

When he makes it back, everything is tidied away and Mycroft is there, a cup of tea in hand. Greg pauses in the doorway, feeling a bit like he’s about to get scolded for the mess he left. Mycroft just grimaces at him, like maybe he’s _trying_ to smile, and mutters something about being stuck on a long call for the foreseeable. When he moves away from the worktop and sweeps past Greg, Greg notices an extra cup of tea already steeping there. 

“Thanks,” Greg says, forcing the word out. It’s too loud. It’s weird. “For the tea.”

Mycroft pauses and says, “You are welcome.”

And then he’s gone. 

  
  


***

  
  


**Greg Lestrade:** I think he’s upset with me

 **Laura Murphy:** I’m sorry, who are you and what’ve you done with my brother??? Are you twelve? Ask him if he is. You’re stuck there, don’t be weird. Don’t make it uncomfortable, idiot. 

**Greg Lestrade:** I don’t know. Everything is weird when you’re on lockdown in a fancy safe house. You’ll understand when it happens to you one day. 

**Laura Murphy:** Seems likely. 

**Greg Lestrade:** Maybe he’s just sick of me. 

**Laura Murphy:** There is no way. 

**Greg Lestrade:** Tracy was. People get sick of me. It happens.

 **Laura Murphy:** Do I need to call you? 

**Greg Lestrade:** No. Gonna go blow things up on the Xbox. Is Henry around? Will you let him sign on and shoot things with me?

 **Laura Murphy:** Text him, I’m not his keeper. Lazy sod’s still in bed. 

Greg hadn’t thought there would be much use for the headset included with the gaming consoles, but he’s glad to have it so he can make fun of his nephew through the microphone and listen to Henry’s frankly hilarious commentary of Greg’s poor gaming skills. 

“Mum says don’t be an idiot,” Henry says before he has to sign off to go do chores round the house. “What’s she talking about?”

“Nothing,” Greg groans. “Tell her she’s mean. Go do your chores. Love you, kid. Thanks for the tips.” 

“Yeah Uncle G. You too.” 

As Henry’s little name disappears from his list of friends who are online, Greg sinks back into the sofa cushions with a sigh. He’s just on the verge of feeling melancholy about the fact that Henry used to wrap chubby arms around his neck and say lovely things like ‘Lub you Unca Greg’ and now he’s grown up and too cool for it, but he’s interrupted in his sulk. 

“May I speak with you?”

Greg swallows hard, leaning up to peer over the back of the sofa at Mycroft’s hovering form. “Sure,” he says, though he’s dreading the let-down he’s about to be handed. 

Mycroft eases into the room and around the sofa. Greg’s surprised when he sits down rather close. Greg sits, legs drawn up onto the sofa cushions, and waits. 

Mycroft draws a deep breath. “Have I done something to upset you?”

Greg rears back. “Sorry, _what?”_

“You were very… short, with me, earlier—”

 _“I_ was short with _you?”_

“Well…” Mycroft blinks. “Yes?”

“No I wasn’t,” Greg insists, struggling to keep his voice down. “I was _not._ You were the one who— you were _snappy.”_

“I…” Mycroft blinks again, then looks away. “Was I?”

 _“Yes.”_ Greg chews at his thumbnail. “And yeah, I was probably a bit snappy back. Sorry.”

“Yes, as am I…” 

But Mycroft still isn’t looking at Greg, appearing lost in thought, eyes a million miles away. 

“Mycroft.” Greg sighs. “Mycroft, eye contact would help me, right about now.” Mycroft turns with an apologetic little grimace. “Why were we so off all morning? Are you… do you wish we hadn’t said the thing about going to dinner? Because I don’t!” He hurries to say this last, leaning forward over his own knees. “I really want that, but if you don’t—” 

“No.” Mycroft shakes his head. “No, I don’t wish we hadn’t said that. I’m not in any way upset or bothered by you or anything you have said to me.”

Greg waves a helpless hand. “Okay?”

Mycroft rubs an elegant finger over his own eyebrow, as if he’s staving off the pang of a headache. “I think… I’m rusty, when it comes to this. I don’t know what went wrong this morning, but once things got off track, so to speak, I didn’t know how to… put them back on it.”

“So you thought icing me out all day would help?”

“I didn’t realize I was doing it.” Mycroft sighs heavily. “I really am sorry.” 

“Well.” Greg winces, hating this sort of thing but knowing that if he wants to fix this he’s going to have to be forthcoming. “To be fair, I should have had it out with you then, instead of being a doormat and then stewing about it. It’s… I do that, sometimes. Bit of a heads up.”

“And I lash out when I ignore the things that are bothering me.” Mycroft shoots him a wry glance. “My god, are we still allowed to call ourselves British men if we talk like this?” 

Greg huffs. “Yes. We’re _evolved._ Look, I’m rusty, too. Everything’s been so great, and now we’ve made plans for two dates—” At Mycroft’s questioning look, Greg clarifies: “Uncles day with Rosie is a date. So is dinner.” 

Mycroft smiles. “Oh.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t have left all the talking for Saturday.” Greg cringes. “That was a bit dramatic and stupid of us.” 

“I still… it would be nice to end our time here with a… plan.” Mycroft’s hand, creeping ever-closer without Greg’s notice, nudges hopefully at Greg’s fingers where they rest on the sofa. 

Greg turns his palm face-up and relaxes as their fingers slot together. “Right, okay. But still - I think we’ve agreed that we’re going to see each other. And it’s scary. I haven’t seen anyone past the second or third date since my divorce, and here we are eleven days in.”

“Seven days,” Mycroft corrects. “For the first four, we were very...”

“Gentlemanly,” Greg fills in. He can’t help grinning. “You really are a romantic. Is this our one week anniversary, then?”

Mycroft chuckles, eyes cast down at their laced fingers. His cheeks are a little pink. “...yes,” he decides. 

Greg’s heart is racing, he realizes. What’s he going to do with this man? How’s he going to _cope_ with this? He’s so... 

“Okay,” he breathes, letting his thoughts run off without him before he swoons or something. “Great. Happy anniversary.”

“You are not the only one who is worried about scaring the other off, as you said last night,” Mycroft says after a moment. He clears his throat. “I… also fear that.”

 _Highly doubt you’re as embarrassing as I am,_ Greg wants to say. _I keep wanting to tell you I love you and that I want to move in with you and become your cat’s stepdad. Jesus._

“Don’t,” he suggests. “Let’s stop worrying about that.” 

Mycroft nods. “I… yes. Alright.”

Greg takes a breath to steady himself, then leans in. “It’s a shame we had our first fight on our _anniversary_ and everything,” he says. “Kiss and make up?”

Mycroft finally looks up, surprised into a real laugh. He nods a bit shyly, and closes the distance between them. 

  
  


***

  
  


**Greg Lestrade:** It was a misunderstanding. Could you tell me about your very normal life for a bit? I think I’m going crazy. 

**Laura Murphy:** Thought you’d never ask. Callie has a boyfriend. Lil is furious. Not that she liked the kid or anything but they’re awfully competitive these days. Don’t worry, have had contraceptive chat with Cal. Try not to have a stroke. Deep breaths, now, Uncle G. Let’s see… what else…

 **Greg Lestrade:** They’re all just babies. 

**Laura Murphy:** Ha! I was just three years older than the girls when I MARRIED THEIR FATHER! Think about THAT!

 **Greg Lestrade:** Shan’t. 

**Laura Murphy:** Deb from work wants to set me up with her accountant. An accountant, G. 

**Greg Lestrade:** Are you ready for that?

 **Laura Murphy:** _*shrug emoji*_ Will I ever be?

 **Greg Lestrade:** You don’t have to be. 

**Laura Murphy:** I miss him. 

**Greg Lestrade:** Me too, babe. 

**Laura Murphy:** IDK. Maybe I should at least get laid. 

**Laura Murphy:** Then again, you have and look at yourself. Behaving like a complete tit. 

**Greg Lestrade:** I’m allowed, thank you very much. Hey - don’t fuck an accountant. We can find you better. 

**Laura Murphy:** _*crying laughing emoji*_

 **Laura Murphy:** As if you would even know how. Go cuddle your fancy man. You should Facetime me tomorrow. Kids’ll be out. Yeah? Say yes. Let me live through you. 

**Greg Lestrade:** We’ll see.

“You are very sweet with your sister.”

Greg glances up in surprise. “You can’t see what I’m typing.”

Mycroft hums, bringing him a glass of wine. “It’s the way your face changes. It’s… very nice.”

Their fingers brush when Greg takes the wine glass from him. “She’s teasing me,” he says. “Wants me to video chat tomorrow so she can gawk at you.”

Mycroft sinks down beside him on the sofa, close enough that their knees bump. “Oh?”

They’re meant to be watching a film, an activity Greg suggested because it was quiet and calm and wouldn’t require any soul-bearing, or attempts at casual conversation after the day they’ve had. Mycroft had suggested another ‘date night,’ clearly hoping to smooth over their rough start that morning. But Greg had shied away from that idea. 

“I don’t need you to make it up to me with a fancy dinner and candles,” he’d said gently. “I think we put the issue to bed quite nicely. I’d rather have leftovers and a film, to be honest.”

Mycroft had responded with a mix of surprise and relief, agreeing easily enough. 

Now, as Greg’s scooting minutely closer to Mycroft on the sofa so that their legs press together, he wonders if he could get away with just staring at him for a while. 

“Mmhm. She’s getting naggy about it,” he says, and then watches Mycroft thinking for a moment. He wonders if he’s deducing how much Greg’s told Laura. He wonders why it is that Mycroft could probably figure out the exact brand of his computer mouse based on the musculature of his wrist, but seems unable to tell that Greg would move in with him tomorrow if he asked. That he’s told his sister he’s losing his head over him.

Mycroft watches Greg watching him and smiles into his wine. 

Maybe he _can_ tell. Greg decides not to worry about it, lest one or both of them start getting weird again. He doesn't want to sit here pretending that he cares about watching the original _Ocean’s Eleven._ They’ve agreed, after all, to stop trying to pretend they don’t want each other in a fairly ridiculous way. Greg takes a sip of his wine - a big one.

“Mycroft?”

“Hm?”

Greg drains the glass and sets it aside. Mycroft’s eyes follow the empty stemware to the table and linger on it before turning back to Greg with a knowing glint. “Forget the film.” 

“Gladly.”

  
  


***

  
  


Greg sighs. This is what he likes. This is what he’s always liked. The first few times with someone you really like are great. The edge of urgency, the hot desperation, those are exciting. Especially when it’s been awhile, like it was for both of them, lust-driven sex is fantastic. 

Greg _really_ likes this, though. It’s what he’s missed most. It’s what he always waits for, has always considered the mark of something good that can last - the sort of sex he almost convinced himself he had simply imagined, or would never have again. 

Mycroft is easy under him in bed, clothes gone, with his limbs wrapped loosely around Greg and his mouth open and gasping into each slow, lush kiss. Greg holds him by the jaw, hands cupping his face as gently as he can manage, and tilts him this way and that, kissing him thoroughly from every possible angle, trying to decide which one he likes best. 

They haven’t spoken much, which is the first big difference between this and everything before. Seems like all they’ve done for almost two weeks is talk, even in bed where they’ve had no problem saying all sorts of hot, naughty little things to each other. It’s been wild, inexplicable. A sort of intimacy that Greg couldn’t believe came so easily and so quickly. But this is a leveling up. It’s a wordless sort of agreement that they don’t need to talk this through. Not this time. 

Mycroft rolls them and Greg goes to his back easily with an encouraging groan, tipping his head back to give Mycroft easier access to his throat. Warm, soft lips pressing sweetly over Greg’s skin over and over until they open and suck marks that will fade quickly, not harsh enough to bruise. Greg shivers with each and every one, hands going tighter and tighter, one around Mycroft’s shoulder and the other in his hair. 

Greg doesn't know what he’d say if he could get his voice to work. He can’t catch his breath. Mycroft’s hips grind down against his, gentle and without urgency, but Greg’s nerves are lit up like he’s being ravished. His hands shake on their way down Mycroft’s back. Greg doesn’t grasp so much as he carefully guides, asking Mycroft with his palms and gripping fingers to move against him more purposefully. 

Mycroft does, pushing up on his elbows for leverage, rutting against Greg in a catching slide that has their breath mingling in a harsh storm between yet more kisses. 

Mycroft pulls back and lays a hand to the side of Greg’s face, thumb stroking gently over his lips. “Greg.”

“Yeah.” Greg doesn't know what he’s agreeing to. Everything. Anything. The fact of his own name. It doesn't matter.

They kiss and kiss. It’s close and slick with sweat where they move together, and nothing they're doing is nearly enough to make anyone come. It’ll happen eventually. 

Mycroft moves away, down the mattress, takes Greg’s cock into his mouth down to the root, and hums and sighs around it like it’s some kind of gift. Greg touches his face and shudders and cries with every expert curl of tongue. 

All he can manage is Mycroft’s name, figuring that being a genius and all, Mycroft can probably read his meaning from tone alone. 

Turns out, he can. Just when Greg’s getting close - too close, he’s not ready yet - Mycroft backs off at the sound of his own name uttered from a tight throat and clenched jaw, replacing his mouth with the soft circle of his fingers. 

“C’mere.” Greg tugs him up and kisses the taste of himself out of Mycroft’s mouth. 

There’s a fumble for the lube, Mycroft leaning over Greg to get it and then handing it to him, rolling onto his back. “Will you?”

Greg nearly whimpers and can only nod. 

He gets two fingers in Mycroft and Mycroft’s hand in his hair, his mouth aimless over Mycroft’s belly and hips, circling and missing his leaking cock. He rests his chin on Mycroft’s thigh and watches his own knuckles disappear, then watches up the length of Mycroft’s body as his head tips back, tossing against the pillow, watches his chest heave and his skin go flushed. 

This is all Greg ever wants to see. This is all he ever wants to do. He doesn't want to leave this weird, windowless house. He doesn't want his old life. He can’t _remember_ it. 

“Come on,” he hears himself murmuring a bit later, repeating the words over and over, his hand wrapped tight around Mycroft’s cock, Mycroft’s body sinking down and taking Greg inside, his arms draped and tangled around Greg’s shoulders, their foreheads pressed together. “Perfect,” Greg gasps. “You’re perfect.”

“Close,” Mycroft murmurs, already rocking down and then up again, slowly working himself over on Greg’s cock. It’s a gentle rolling ride, his fingertips sinking hard into Greg’s skin wherever they can grip. “Won’t— won’t last.”

“Good.” Greg strokes him, kisses him, holds still and lets Mycroft fuck him however he likes, however he needs. “Good, good, come on.” 

After Mycroft comes between them, gorgeous punched-out moans right in Greg’s ear while his body goes tight and grasping around him, he says, “Don’t stop,” and tugs at Greg until they tumble back onto the mattress. “More. More, please, fuck me. Come like this.”

“Are you—” 

Mycroft nods, wraps his legs around him and hooks a hand around the back of Greg’s neck. “Do it.”

And Mycroft is a shaking mess by the end. He gets a hand between Greg’s body and his own oversensitized cock, keeping them from pressing together so close that the friction is uncomfortable. Greg couldn’t be mindful of it if he tried, not with the world whited out around him like it is. 

_“Mycroft.”_ He can’t believe how good that was. He can’t believe the way Mycroft trembled through what sounded like a second orgasm and looked almost painful, or the way he’d sucked Greg’s lower lip between his teeth _just_ as Greg lost it, coming so hard he thought for a split second that he might pass out before he got to really feel it. 

It takes an age, an eon, to catch his breath. Mycroft rolls them to the side and helps Greg’s numb fingers deal with the condom, pitching it carelessly off the bed before gathering Greg in for a kiss with his shaky fingers pressing sweetly to Greg’s cheeks. 

“Thank you,” he murmurs shakily into the kiss. “Thank you, Greg.”

“Shh,” Greg soothes, gathering him closer. “You’re so beautiful, so perfect, shh, I—” he catches himself just in time, swallows his words and kisses him instead.

  
  



	12. Side by Side

Greg gives in and calls Laura the next morning after a lazy breakfast. He’s feeling relaxed and rather pleased with himself after last night, limbs loose and brain all full of cotton wool. Breakfast had been a heated affair, all glances over their mugs of tea and footsie under the table. 

It was frankly embarrassing, but there’s no one but the cat to see, still, so… Greg’s got high hopes for how often he’ll see Mycroft after this, and he’s a little worried that he’s never going to manage acting normal around him again. 

Still, even morning-after bliss doesn't entirely rid him of the anxiety this call induces. 

“She might be a lot,” he warns Mycroft. “I’m the quiet one, and she’s excited and loves to embarrass me. So. Brace yourself.”

Mycroft simply smiles and shakes his head. “I am braced,” he says. 

“Don’t believe anything she says about me.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes. 

When Laura answers the call, she’s a little flushed in the face and is dancing in front of her laptop camera in the kitchen, a little excited foot-to-foot shift as she ties her hair up in a knot on top of her head. “You’re _alive!”_

Greg huffs at her. “We’ve texted.”

“That could’ve been anyone.” Laura leans over the kitchen bench, face close to the camera. “Where is he?”

“Beside me,” Greg replies, aiming for unaffected and dry in his tone, but itching to simply tilt his mobile to the left to show Mycroft where he sits, thigh pressed to Greg’s on the sofa. “But before you meet him, I feel like there need to be some ground rules.”

Laura cackles before she starts protesting. Beside Greg, Mycroft gives an amused little snort and grabs the phone himself, fingers closing reassuring over Greg’s before he turns the mobile so that the frame accommodates them both. 

“Hello,” he says. “A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Murphy.”

“O- _oh.”_ Laura blinks, grin spreading slow across her face. “Hel _lo.”_

Greg is mortified, but beside him Mycroft chuckles. 

“Oh, Greg,” Laura sighs. “Finally, a nice one.” 

He hears Mycroft’s breath catch and then it’s Greg’s turn to laugh. He takes Mycroft’s hand where the camera won’t pick it up, and squeezes. Laura’s right. He _is_ a nice one, whether Mycroft understands that about himself or not. 

“Call me Laura. So?” Laura wiggles her eyebrows. “How goes the isolation?”

Greg rolls his eyes and ignores this little innuendo. “Mycroft, meet Laura. She’s a nurse. Laura, meet Mycroft. He’s a civil servant. You are both going to be very normal now, and not give me any heart attacks.”

Mycroft shoots him the sweetest little look, pleased and amused. “I’m exceedingly normal,” he says to Greg, before facing the camera again. “I’ve heard, however, that you are in fact an extremely skilled midwife? And with an exceptional family. My congratulations to your daughters on their admittance to university next autumn. You must be incredibly proud. Two fantastic institutions.”

Laura is instantly charmed, Greg can see it. For his own part, he burns with pride for the girls, and loves Mycroft for starting this way, for turning the attention on Laura and how amazing she is, how amazing her little family is. She doesn't hear it enough. 

“Well,” she breathes. “Thank you, we’re very proud of them, of course. I’m nothing special, but you’re right that I’m a midwife.”

“Shortlisted for RCM’s midwife of the year last year,” Mycroft murmurs. “Hardly ‘nothing special’.”

Laura laughs, a little shrill and embarrassed, and hides her face. “Ugh, Greg! Why’d you tell him that?”

“He can’t stop singing your praises,” Mycroft answers. “For good reason.” 

_“God.”_ Laura shakes her head. “Well, thank you. Coming from a man who seems to be from an _actually_ extraordinary family, I really appreciate it.”

“I did hear that you met my brother…”

Greg sits back and watches them talk. It doesn't surprise him at all that they take to each other immediately. Greg isn’t feeling surprise so much as… disbelief.

How is this Greg Lestrade’s life? This isn’t how things go for him. Ever. 

Mycroft glances at him and does a subtle double take, eyebrow quirked in question: _What’s the matter?_

Greg can only smile, shake his head, and force himself to pay attention to the conversation happening beside him, involving himself enough to look like he’s got two brain cells to rub together, and hasn’t lost all his sense to the swirl of desperate affection overtaking his body. 

Laura keeps sliding Gregs these looks, eyes flicking to him and then back to Mycroft, sometimes down and away while she nods at what one of them says, smiles at nothing, at her fingernails or the table. 

Mycroft’s phone pings eventually, and he’s regretful, eyes guilty when they meet Greg’s.

Silly man. 

“It’s really fine,” Greg soothes. “Go call Anthea; Laura wants to grill me, anyway.”

“I do, indeed! Hey, Mycroft, if I don’t get to say bye, it’s been lovely meeting you. I can’t wait to do this in person.” 

Mycroft is so visibly pleased, pink in the cheeks and a little stuttery with surprise. He thanks her, returns the sentiment, and goes - but not without a quick press of lips to Greg’s temple. Greg can’t help but lean into it, can’t stop his eyes from closing in pleasure at that small sweetness. 

Greg watches him go, utterly besotted, and not particularly caring that his little sister can see it. 

“Is he gone?” She whispers after a moment.

“Mmhm.”

 _“Holy! Shit!”_ Laura whisper _screams,_ now. “Greg! Greg, oh my _god,_ I’ve never seen you look at _anyone_ like that!”

“Wh—” Greg laughs, a little nervous. “No, I mean— I’m sure you have.”

“No. I haven’t.”

“Tracy…”

 _“Tracy?”_ Laura scoffs. “I hate Tracy, I _always_ hated Tracy. You know this.”

Greg _didn’t._ “I knew you were never _friends—”_

“No, Greg, I can’t stand the bitch.” Laura looks downright disgusted. “I’m shocked you didn’t realize. I told you she wasn’t good enough for you.” 

Greg gapes at her. “That’s just a thing people _say.”_

“No, it isn’t!” Laura seems unable to believe him at the moment, mouth hanging open to emit an exasperated laugh. “Greg!” 

“Well…” He shifts. “Look, I was married to her for a really long time— I _did_ love her.”

“Not like this,” Laura insists. _“Not like this,_ Greg.” 

He blinks at her, then has to look away, down at his fidgeting hand in his lap. He wishes he had something to rest his mobile against so he could fiddle with something, fill both hands with movement so he can channel all these nerves suddenly jangling in him _._ “Not like this,” he admits. “No.” 

Laura squeals and her feet do a little jig under her, her shoulders doing a goofy sway back and forth to fill the window of his phone screen. “He definitely feels the same,” she says. _“Definitely._ Don’t argue with me, you clearly aren’t qualified. A thing people say, _honestly._ Oh, Greg, I’m so excited for you.”

Greg’s face burns. Her excitement, her certainty, do a bit to soothe the rush of nervousness, but he’s still a bit terrified. This is so weird and embarrassing. He’s not one of her _friends._ He’s not…

“Jesus,” he murmurs finally, thumb worrying at his chin. He looks at her helplessly. Her big dark eyes are sympathetic, if slightly pixelated. “Jesus, Laura, what do I do?”

“Be yourself,” she says instantly. “Be honest. Tell him the truth, all the time, about how you feel and what you think. Life is too short, Greg. I swear to god, it is.”

And those are tears in her voice, coming on suddenly, and Greg can see them in her eyes, and just as suddenly his throat hurts. “Yeah, I know,” he says. He swallows hard, thinking of his brother in law, Pete, before he fell ill. The way he would grin at Laura, even when she wasn’t looking. Greg used to think: _Good. He still looks at her like she hung the moon._ He used to get a little jealous, wishing anyone had ever looked at him like that; wishing anyone had ever made him want to look at _them_ like that.

Laura’s right. This time is different. Greg watches her compose herself and thinks how smart she is, how wise. Laura’s been through the wars, and she’s still the sweetest, steadiest, most selfless woman Greg’s ever known. 

“I love you, kid,” he says gently. “It’s alright.”

She shakes her head and stomps her foot a little, unable to look at him while she breathes through it, eyes averted to the ceiling like she’s trying to let the tears drain away, absorb back in.

“Shit.” Laura presses her fingers to her eyes. “D’you think I’ll ever get all twisted up like that again? Like you are now? Over some accountant, maybe?”

“Not the accountant,” he insists. “But yes. I do. When you’re ready. No rush. It’s great and all, but _christ,_ what a distraction, you know?” 

“Oh my god.” Laura laughs and shakes her head rapidly. She takes a deep, sniffly breath. “Okay, I’m fine. I’m fine! You were right that he’s lovely. Mycroft, I mean. He’s really sweet.”

“Yeah.” Greg tries not to look too moony. “You should see him though, other places, other, um… contexts, I guess. He’s a fucking force, Laura. Stone bloody cold. He’s a huge deal, _really_ powerful.” 

“A civil servant.”

“Mm.” Greg shrugs. “Yeah, like I said.”

“Jesus Christ,” she sighs. “You’re going to marry the bloody Wizard of Oz and your brother-in-law will be _Sherlock Holmes.”_

Greg feels his entire being lurch at the suggestion. “That would be… yeah. Great.”

“Aw, sweetheart.” Laura leans close to her laptop, nearly tapping the camera with her forehead, which she’d be doing to his actual face if they were together in person. “I love this for you.” 

They talk for a while longer, mostly about the kids, then about the possible date with the accountant. Before they hang up, Laura asks Greg to give Mycroft a big noisy kiss on the cheek for her. 

He rolls his eyes, but he does go off to see if Mycroft’s office door is open. May as well give him a kiss of some kind, even if it’s not that particular kind. 

  
  


***

  
  


“She is fantastic,” Mycroft tells Greg later while they cool down from a run. “Very like you. Easy to talk to. Smart. Kind. And of course very attractive.”

Greg laughs as he takes the last slow steps before the treadmill winds down. “Isn’t she great? The kids, too. You… uh. You could meet them, someday. Maybe.”

Mycroft blinks at this, his own treadmill crawling to a stop. “Oh.”

Greg turns his face into a towel under the pretense of mopping his sweaty face to hide his wince. “I mean. If we… go to dinner a lot.”

Mycroft is quiet, and eventually Greg gets up the courage to lower the towel from his eyes. Mycroft’s watching him, unreadable. 

“Sorry,” Greg mumbles. “Maybe that was an odd thing to say?”

Mycroft leans across the rails of the exercise equipment and kisses him. “No,” he says. “It wasn’t.”

While they’re stretching one more time, Greg watches Mycroft’s long fingers wrap around different parts of himself and can imagine them on his own skin. He’s tempted to simply drag the man to the gym floor and take this in an entirely different direction. 

“I can’t remember the last time I interacted with a teenager,” Mycroft says after a while. “I think your nieces and nephew would find me a bit… stuffy.”

Greg laughs. “Maybe at first,” he concedes. “But. I dunno. Sherlock is more or less on the level of a twenty-something at this point, thanks to John. Up until a couple years ago, he was exactly like dealing with a hormonal, grouchy teenaged boy. Trust me. Maybe you don’t remember him as one, or yourself as one - I certainly have blocked my own nonsense from my memory for the most part. But I’ve been an uncle for an age and a half, and an uncle to stroppy teens for almost ten years. I promise you, it’s not that different from a bored Sherlock.”

Mycroft laughs quietly, shaking his head in amusement while Greg prattles on. “If you say so,” he says. “I think that with a small child like Rosie Watson it is somewhat easier to buy favor, hm?”

“For absolute sure, yes.” Greg grins. “Don’t worry, Mycroft. We’ll make a favorite uncle of you, yet.”

  
  


***

  
  


“It’s… very nice,” Mycroft says later. “When you refer to things we will do in the future. I have noticed it makes you nervous to say such things.” 

Greg, caught a bit off guard, looks up from his dinner. “Really?”

“Mm.” Mycroft nudges the last samosa across the table. “Don’t. Be nervous, that is.”

Greg smiles at him and takes the samosa. “I’ll try.” 

  
  


***

  
  


“Tell me about being an uncle,” Mycroft says later, legs tangled with Greg’s on the sofa. “What is the best part?”

“I think I'm supposed to say something funny,” Greg says after a moment of thought. “Something like, the best part is giving them back, or spoiling them and pissing off their parents. And that’s fun. I’ve been known to get liberal with the sweets and then send them home to wreak havoc. But… I dunno.” 

He sighs, rolling just slightly away to rest on his back beside Mycroft. “I wanted to be a dad. _I think.”_ He wobbles his hand back and forth in the air. “I dunno if I just wanted to because I was supposed to want to - the next step, you know? Or if I _really_ wanted to, down in my bones. I think… being an uncle, and not a father, was better for me, at that age. My marriage was a mess almost from the beginning, and worrying that it would upset my sister’s kids when Tracy and I split was hard enough. I can’t imagine it with kids of our own. _Anyway -_ Laura having kids was like… it was like being lucky enough to have a second go-round with my favorite person. And to top it off, I got to do it times two, with the twins. Those girls… they’re so like her. It was magic, watching them, like deja vu and constant surprise all at the same time. And Henry, he’s like her, and like his dad, but he was all of ten when Pete died, and… he needed me. It’s been my honor, really, to be there. Sometimes he says things, and Laura gives me this look - this _‘that’s all you, thanks a lot’,_ sort of look. And it’s the best feeling, handing a little piece of myself down to a person. So, I dunno if there’s a best part. _They’re_ the best part. I can’t imagine life before them.”

He sighed and tilted his head to the side. “Sorry. I know that’s not necessarily what you—”

Mycroft quiets him with a kiss, shifting and curving closer, an arm slipping carefully around Greg’s waist. “Don’t apologize. Tell me more.”

Greg tells him more. About being handed Lily when she was just hours old, and how he’d wept like a baby himself while Pete made fun of him through his own squeaky, choked-up throat. How he got a call when Laura went into labor with Henry and he rushed to her and Pete’s flat in Camden to watch the two-year-old twins for them. How the girls had screeched their heads off almost the entire time and Greg had been near tears himself. He’d had to call Nan begging for advice. She was old and physically unwell then, and would pass by the end of that year, but she was sharp and dry-witted as ever. 

_“You’ve never had any sense,_ is what she said to me,” Greg says, laughing. _“But even a complete fool can manage a child that small. Give them a sweet, boy, and don’t prod them if they’re quiet.”_ Mycroft laughs with him and cuddles him closer. “I said, _Nan, you never gave_ us _sweets!_ She said, _I was trying to make you into a useful sort of person. Did I succeed or not?_ And then she hung up on me.”

Mycroft presses a casual kiss to Greg’s cheek. “And? Did they calm?”

“Fuck, no! Sugar’s awful!” Greg wipes at his eyes, crying half because he’s laughing, and half because god, suddenly he just really misses _Nan._ What is _with_ him today? “Anyway, they eventually ran out of steam. Slept too late the next morning. Henry showed some time that afternoon, with some troubles. He had a little heart problem, you see. All fine now, but. God. I haven’t thought of how terrifying that was in years.”

“Sherlock was unwell when he was born.”

“Yeah?”

Mycroft nods. “Something to do with his breathing, at first. Eurus was with the nanny and so, supposedly, was I. He was born at home, and I sat under the bedroom window waiting to hear him cry.”

Greg closes his eyes. “And?”

“An ambulance came, instead.” Mycroft stretches and sighs and tucks his face in close to Greg’s neck. “He and our mother were back home in a day or two. I don’t remember if I was upset. But I remember when they brought him back. I couldn’t stand to leave him alone.”

Greg gives him a tight squeeze. 

_God,_ he thinks. _I_ love _you._

They fall quiet for a while after that, once again worn out by the constant flow of confession and recognition. It’s nice. Calm. Warm. 

Greg nearly falls asleep.

  
  


***

  
  


That night, they only crawl into bed together, stripped down to their pants but neither of them making a move toward anything involving less clothing than that. 

“Tomorrow,” Greg says, trying for light-hearted with a bit of joking gravitas, “we have to decide whether we like each other enough to keep being… friends?”

“Are we going with _‘friends’_?” 

Greg noses up under his chin. “Well, it’s negotiable.”

“Is it?” Mycroft chuckles. “Go to sleep.”

“I will,” Greg insists. “But… you like me enough, yeah?”

Mycroft pokes him in the ribs. “You are terrible.”

Greg kicks at him. “You like me!””

“Do I?” Mycroft hooks him round the waist and drags him close. “Forecast hazy. Check back later.”

“You like me,” Greg murmurs into a kiss. 

“Hmmm.”

“Well, I like you.”

Mycroft’s lips smile against Greg’s. “Well, I would call that a start.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're coming close to the end and I have loved this fluff-fest, with you all. Thank you so much for your sweet comments. They FEED me!


	13. Right From The Start I Knew

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final chapter, with an epilogue posted at the same time <3

Greg wakes Mycroft with kisses along his jaw, thrilled to have been the early riser this morning. He’d spent all of fifteen seconds considering getting up and bringing toast and tea to the bed, but no. No, he’s absolutely not leaving the bed. Not yet. 

Mycroft stirs awake as Greg, having started at the point of his chin, reaches his earlobe. 

“Good morning, gorgeous,” Greg murmurs against his ear. 

Mycroft shiversers. _“Oh._ Hello.”

“You’re so lovely.” Greg knows as he speaks that he’s going to run off at the mouth in an embarrassing way. He doesn't even try to stop himself. “Even first thing, sweetheart, so _lovely._ And _warm._ Wanna touch you all over. _”_

“Well, no one is stopping you,” Mycroft tells him in a sleep-rough voice that sounds raspy and sexy, like a purr. 

Mycroft tips and tilts, stretches his throat to the side and back, giving Greg room to work over the soft skin and tight muscle there in between more rambling praise. 

Mycroft’s hands are sleepy and warm on Greg’s skin as they roll into each other, and his breath stutters and catches next to Greg’s ear with each kiss and nibble.

“Fuck,” Greg whispers to himself, chills running down his spine with every hot exhalation. “Mycroft.”

Mycroft’s shaky fingers trail over Greg’s shoulders, then dig, hauling him over all the way, legs splaying to welcome Greg’s hips between them. “Good morning,” he mutters.

Greg laughs and kisses him, a little messy with the sheer fun of it. They both have morning breath, but Greg doesn't care a bit; doesn't even notice, really. “Yeah, good morning to you too, you fucking rennaissance painting.” 

“Oh, _shut up,”_ Mycroft grunts, and throws Greg over onto his back easily. “You have no right to be so flattering first thing in the morning. Not looking like that.”

Greg laughs and copies Mycroft immediately, thighs falling open and legs hooking loosely around the slim hips already grinding down into him. “I can say whatever I want and you can’t stop me,” he gasps, and then whatever cocky things he might’ve said next are swallowed in a kiss so shockingly deep that he actually shakes on impact. 

Mycroft skips from Greg’s mouth to his nipples and then back again. He circles fingers around one wet nub of flesh, eyes flashing hot when he gazes down at Greg between kisses. “Was there something in particular you wanted? An aim to all this… buttering up?”

“It’s not buttering up if it’s the truth,” Greg says, arching into Mycroft’s teasing fingers. “Fuck me,” he requests, breathless. “Please?” 

_“You_ woke _me,”_ Mycroft says, a low growl against Greg’s jaw. “Now I’m to do all of the work?”

“Yeah.” Greg rolls his hips up and sighs, thrilled at the drag and friction. “Think I’ll just lie here and think of England.”

“You could _try,”_ Mycroft says, dry as bone and yet full of challenge as he rocks back, sitting up and hitching Gregs knees up. “Now be quiet, I have work to do.” 

And _Jesus tap-dancing Christ._

“Please,” Greg gasps an interminable amount of time later, as Mycroft’s fingers tease at him where he’s so wet from Mycroft’s mouth and so relaxed and soft - so ready - that Greg’s half convinced they don’t need lube at all. “Oh please, put them— come on, Mycroft, I’m good to go.”

Mycroft slips one fingertip inside just the barest amount. “Are you?”

“Mmhm.” Greg forces himself to breathe steady. “Yeah, I am.”

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I don’t want you to,” Greg says, and though the words don’t beg, he knows his tone does. “I just don’t want you to _tease_ me.”

“Hmm…” Mycroft slips back between Greg’s thighs and licks, kisses, and bites for a little longer, seemingly aimless. “Fetch me the lubricant, dear,” he drawls, sarcastic, from down there. 

Greg kicks him in the side a little, but does as instructed, rolling away from Mycroft’s mouth to do so. Mycroft sits up and rocks back on his heels, eyes scraping over Greg’s body. Greg hands him the tube and a condom, then stays up on his elbows, watching as Mycroft slicks his fingers quickly and applies them to Greg almost carelessly, movements quick and sloppy, spreading slick around his hole and then gently slipping inside before pulling away for more. 

Greg is thrilled when Mycroft rolls the condom on and slicks himself next. “Oh,” he murmurs. “Yeah.”

Mycroft smirks at him and leans in for a kiss, one that starts out the mirror of their earlier, dirtier ones but then softens as Mycroft presses him back. “I’ll do it your way,” he says quietly. “But _slowly._ Behave yourself.”

“We’ll see,” Greg tells him, going to his back easily and spreading his legs, pulling them up toward his chest, holding himself open. He knows what he looks like, he knows exactly how desperate, and he knows by now that Mycroft likes that. “Come on.”

“You are a _wet dream,”_ Mycroft says, and Greg nearly laughs at the way he sounds - scandalized and turned on, admiring and almost _annoyed._ “It’s… overwhelming.”

Greg shakes his head. “Come on, Mycroft.”

Mycroft doesn't make him wait, but he makes good on his promise to go slowly. He works into Greg inch by inch, in a gentle rocking motion. The stretch and burn are intense and good. Greg loves this. He likes the edge to it; the way he can’t quite catch his breath as he works to adjust. Mycroft kisses him, on his forehead where sweat has broken out, on his eyelids, and then his lips, salty and sweet at once. 

“You’re doing beautifully.”

Greg pants. “Yeah? You could go a little f—”

“Behave,” Mycroft reminds him with a light pinch to the hip, and then rocks his hips again, sinking, ever so gently, further inside. 

“You’re so _thick,”_ Greg sighs, hoping flattery will get him everywhere, or at least fucked hard and reckless into the mattress. “Come on,” he cajoles, “give me more.” 

He tries to roll his hips, letting go of his legs to lower his feet to the bed. 

“I will stop,” Mycroft murmurs in warning, pulling nearly all of the way out and taking hold of Greg’s legs himself. “Do I need to hold you down?”

“Oh, my god,” Greg groans, letting Mycroft fold him nearly in half. _“If you want to.”_

Mycroft’s eyes are mocking, shamming at being deeply unimpressed, but his lips are twitching.

“Okay, fine,” Greg whines. “But we’re going to come back to… all of that… later.”

“Oh?”

“Mmhm.” Greg reaches over his own head to hang on to the headboard as Mycroft _finally_ bottoms out. “Fuck, that’s - deep.” 

“Too much?”

“I swear to god—” 

And Mycroft laughs and kisses him, Greg’s legs fully over his shoulders now, the burn of _that_ stretch, zinging up his hamstrings and the muscles of his thighs, almost as intense as being opened up had been. And then Mycroft begins to move, and Greg loses track of everything: his limbs, his hands, his lower back and his thighs, but most especially, his mouth. 

“You fuck me so good,” he tells Mycroft, ragged, with one hand hooked behind Mycroft’s head so their foreheads knock together. “You’re so fucking good, Mycroft, love the way you feel, love how you open me up with your _big—_ ah! Oh, god— big, um—” 

“If you’re talking,” Mycroft pants, “I’m doing something incorrectly.”

“Well,” Greg breathes, grinning and shuddering at the same time. “You know how I get.”

“Yes,” Mycroft says. “I do.”

And then his hand closes around Greg’s cock and pulls, rough and fast and relentless, until Greg’s coming so hard he thinks he’s going blind. He’s still trembling through it when Mycroft stills with a shout, fingers digging into Greg’s hips. 

They kiss and kiss, Greg’s come smeared between their bellies, Greg’s legs shaking where they hook around Mycroft’s thighs. 

“You’re so good at that,” Greg slurs. “So good.”

“Well.” Mycroft huffs, amused, against Greg’s jaw where he’s nibbling gently. “Thank you. I try.”

Greg giggles a bit madly. “Yeah,” he says, nonsensically. “Mycroft?”

Mycroft nips a line down Greg’s throat. “Yes?”

“When are we going to dinner?”

Mycroft pauses, lips poised over the dip of Greg’s clavicle. “Tomorrow?” 

Greg grins at the ceiling while he’s kissed all over his chest and shoulders. He moves his hands from Mycroft’s shoulders and up into his hair, tugging at him and directing him back to Greg’s lips. “Tomorrow sounds great,” he says, passing the words to Mycroft’s mouth in a chaste press of lips. “And then, I was thinking, I’ll take you to breakfast before work on Monday.”

Mycroft grins, but tries to kiss Greg anyway. “That’s presumptuous.”

“Well, you know how I get.”

Mycroft buries his face in Greg’s neck. “Yes, I do.”

  
  


***

  
  


After a shared shower and side-by-side shave, they fall back into bed for another hour of sleep, and then stumble together into the kitchen for a late brunch of leftovers and tea. 

“We should spend this entire day in bed,” Greg suggests. 

Mycroft smirks over the rim of his teacup. “Oh?”

“Why not? We can plan more dates in between rounds.” Greg gestures with his fork. “So - dinner tomorrow, breakfast on Monday. Then what?”

Mycroft leans back in his chair and smiles in a way Greg can’t quite interpret. “Do you usually plan your… dates? Out this far?”

Greg can’t help the flash of concern. “They… they’re dates, right?” 

“Yes, of course they are.”

“We don’t have to plan them. I was just being, you know… funny. Or trying to be.” Greg holds himself still, though he really wants to bounce a knee or fiddle with his silverware. “Sorry?”

“I don’t mind," Mycroft hurries to say. “Please, don’t think— _I’m_ sorry. I’m simply out of practice when it comes to… this.”

“This?”

“Dating?”

Greg lets out a relieved sigh. “I’ve never heard you sound unsure like that before. Dating, Mycroft, yeah. That’s what I want to do. With you.”

It’s not, really. Greg’s so far beyond that already, it’s a bit ridiculous. But he can’t get a read on Mycroft. Not well enough to get that intense this early on. Is Mycroft unsure because he’s rusty? Because he’s been single a long time? Is it because of the two week lockdown making things strange? 

Is it something else?

Sure, they’ve both admitted to being pretty gone on each other. They’ve both said they want more when they leave here. But what does that mean, if Mycroft wasn’t sure that it meant _dating?_ What else is there? Casual sex? That’s not… Greg would take that, if it was all that Mycroft wanted to offer. But he really hadn’t thought things were headed that way. 

While Greg’s having all of these thoughts in what feels like a blink, Mycroft is relaxing in his seat and smiling. 

_Steady on,_ Greg tells himself. _Stop panicking._

“Good,” Mycroft says, nodding. “Right. Good.” 

Greg smiles helplessly across the table. “So? Third date?”

“Dinner again,” Mycroft says after a moment. “Perhaps a show.” 

“A _show!”_

“It’s rather easy or me to obtain tickets to nearly anything you might wish to see.” Mycroft traces a finger idly through a bit of spilled tea on the table. “We can decide later. Anything you like.” He pauses. “Fourth date?”

“Uncles day with Rosie.”

“Of course.”

Greg finds himself grinning as he says, “Fifth date?” 

And Mycroft is grinning back, the real, honest smile Greg’s been growing used to these past two weeks. “We could make it a mini-break. Why not? We’ll deserve a real vacation, won’t we? After all of this.”

“Where?”

“...Paris.”

_“Paris?”_

Mycroft nods. “Objections?”

“Not a one.” Greg resists the urge to rub a hand over his racing heart. “Then what? Do we keep numbering them after something like that? Weekend in Paris, that’s a big deal.”

Mycroft tilts his head to the side, and something sweet happens with his expression, a little twist and quirk of his lips, a softening of the eyes. He opens his mouth to speak, and his mobile chimes. 

“Don’t apologize,” Greg says before he can so much as switch his expression over to regret. “Just check what she needs.”

Mycroft answers the call. “Good morning, Anthea… afternoon? Fine. Good afternoon, Anthea. How may I assist?”

As Greg watches, Mycroft’s face goes a little pale, and his expression goes tight. 

“You…” Mycroft touches his fingertips to his temple and winces. “I see. That… yes, of course, that’s very sensible, indeed. Could you allow me a short time to— yes, that sounds adequate, thank you. Mm. Quite well, thank you. Yes, both of us. Right. Twenty minutes or so.”

He hangs up and stares down at the dark screen for a moment.

“Did something happen?”

Mycroft glances up with a wince. “No,” he says. “Only… Anthea is outside with a car, ready to take us home.”

Greg can’t quite compute that. “But that’s tomorrow.”

“Technically,” Mycroft sighs. “She apparently comes equipped with face masks as an extra precaution. She thought it would be nice to carry out our final day of isolation at home, preparing to return to work on Monday. She… means to be helpful.”

Greg feels a bit like he's been hit in the face. His mind races to catch up, to get a grip on this change of plans. There’s _no way_ to undo this. It would be completely insane to _ask for_ another day in isolation. “She’s… I mean it’s only sensible, yeah? S’Friday. This way she doesn't have to spend her Saturday herding us out.” He doesn't know what to do with his hands. “Well… fuck. This is— a little disappointing.”

“A little,” Mycroft mutters, voice edged with irritation, before he sighs. “I’m sorry. We’ll have to gather our things and go. Now.”

“Yeah,” Greg says, feeling vaguely numb as he pushes away from the table. He glances around the kitchen. “We never did have a fancy meal in that obnoxious dining room.”

Mycroft huffs. “No,” he says. 

Greg can’t let them leave the kitchen like this. He snags Mycroft by the hand. “C’mere.”

He thinks he sees relief in Mycroft’s eyes before their lips meet. Greg gets as close to him as he can without knocking the both of them to the floor and tearing their clothes off. He knocks Mycroft into the wall beside the door and leans into him and kisses him with as much feeling as he can, funneling all the hope he has for this thing they’ve managed to find into it.

“It’s alright,” Greg murmurs when it ends. “I’d still like dinner with you tomorrow night.”

_“Good.”_

“Mycroft.”

“Mm?”

“This has been the best forced quarantine I’ve ever had.”

Mycroft laughs and kisses him again. “For me, as well - and I’ve actually done this before.”

Greg gapes at him. “And you had two weeks to tell me that story!”

“I’ll tell you over breakfast.”

 _Thank god,_ Greg thinks. _This is going to be just fine._

“You have a deal. Kiss me one more time, then go get Maddie all set to leave. I’ll help pack up your things.”

_And I fucking love you and don’t want to go back to my empty flat, please take me home with you._

  
  


***

  
Greg thinks about saying at least that last bit out loud several times on the car ride to his flat. He and Mycroft had exited the safe house, bags and cat carrier in hand, to find an actual limo idling in the loading bay, two masks resting on the roof and Anthea tapping away on her mobile a reasonable distance away. 

She had smiled, full-on, at Mycroft when they walked out. Greg’s met Anthea a ton of times and has never seen her smile like that. She’d greeted Mycroft with a happy _Welcome back to the world, sir,_ and then said something nice to Greg. Greg had needed to remind himself to be nice in return - that it wasn’t Anthea’s fault that her very nice attempt to spring them early was so… well, upsetting. She couldn’t have known. 

Greg thinks on that too, as the car makes its way back into London proper. He and Mycroft are in the back, separated from Anthea and the driver by a privacy screen, but they have to keep the blasted surgical masks on. _Just in case._

They’ve been quiet since the door shut behind them, though Mycroft has had a grip on Greg’s hand the entire time. 

In the silence, Greg thinks about Anthea not knowing. Is it odd that Mycroft didn’t tell her, even subtly? She seemed to understand they would need… _sex supplies._

Greg turns that over. In his mind. Maybe she thought it was a casual thing only. He _knows,_ deep down, that it wasn’t and that neither he or Mycroft thinks so, but…

Why doesn't Anthea know. If she’d _known,_ would she have surprised them with this jailbreak? 

Sure, she and Mycroft are… coworkers? Professional partners? Who knows? But Greg knows they’ve known each other for ages, and that Anthea functions as much more than a PA, and not just in terms of her job description. 

After all, Greg did watch her, umbrella in hand, waiting outside Mycroft’s townhome in flats and jeans and a sweater, not her usual sharp, expensive uniform. He’d watched her meet Mycroft halfway, ushering him under the umbrella with her, and she’d kept a gentle hand on his back as she guided him up the steps to his house. Greg had seen how she cared, how much she had worried while Mycroft sat locked in a cell at Sherrinford. 

He guesses it’s just not as intimate a friendship as he thought. Or maybe Mycroft just didn’t feel comfortable telling her anything while they were stuck in isolation. 

Greg shouldn’t be reading into this; it’s crazy. 

“I’ll miss you,” he murmurs to Mycroft as the limo arrives outside Greg’s building. “Call me when you’re settled in?”

Mycroft’s eyebrows lift in surprise. Greg can’t believe how much he can read just in Mycroft’s eyes, with the rest of his face obscured by blue fabric. He used to find Mycroft so inscrutable.

“Yes,” Mycroft says. “I’ll do that.” 

“See you tomorrow?”

Mycroft nods. 

They can’t even kiss goodbye with the bloody masks on. 

  
  


***

  
  


Mycroft does text Greg around seven that evening. Greg’s changed his stale sheets and cleaned his loo, because it needed it before he ever had a bunch of bacteria explode around him. He’s cleared the fridge and swept and hoovered, and he’s dusting when his mobile beeps at him from between the sofa cushions. 

**Mycroft Holmes:** I think I miss the sofa.

There’s a photo attached of a truly torturous-looking antique divan. 

**Mycroft Holmes:** And you as well, of course. Where would you like to go to dinner tomorrow night, assuming neither of us comes down with Dengue fever by then?

Greg collapses onto the sofa with a smile he couldn’t be rid of even if he wanted to. 

**Greg Lestrade:** Anywhere. Your place?

 **Mycroft Holmes:** Absolutely not. I will take you out, like a gentleman would. 

**Greg Lestrade:** A hopeless romantic, you mean.

 **Mycroft Holmes:** Perhaps. 

**Greg Lestrade:** You don’t have any comfy furniture in your big fancy house in Pall Mall?

 **Mycroft Holmes:** I thought I did. I have a library-cum-lounge on the second floor with more modern accoutrements. But no, even the sofa there is lacking. 

**Greg Lestrade:** Well, you can always buy a new one. I’ll help you pick ;)

 **Mycroft Holmes:** Please.

Greg should be wincing at himself. _Furniture shopping,_ for fucksake. But he isn’t. He won’t. Can’t bring himself to. 

He decides he should cook something and go to bed early so he can get up at a decent hour and get some time in with Laura and the girls tomorrow before his _date._

  
  


***

  
  


He can’t sleep. It’s gone nine, and he can’t sleep. That’s not so odd, really - it’s early for him to be in bed. He still tries. 

At ten, he wonders if he should’ve texted Mycroft some more earlier. He worries he ended the conversation too soon. 

**Greg Lestrade:** Sleep well. 

There’s no answer. Maybe Mycroft is working. Maybe he’s sleeping. Maybe he’s regretting every move he made while they were— 

Greg is being an _idiot,_ but he can’t _sleep._

At nearly midnight, his mobile dings. 

**Mycroft Holmes:** You, as well. I’m looking forward to dinner. 

Greg closes his eyes and holds his phone to his chest and tells himself to _go to sleep._

At half-two, he takes a chance. 

**Greg Lestrade:** I actually… can’t sleep. 

He’s tossed and turned in bed, and then tossed and turned on the sofa. He’s lain on the floor of his cramped lounge and berated himself to _go to fucking sleep._ He’s pacing his kitchen with his mobile in his hand. 

At nearly a quarter past three, his phone dings. He’s back in bed, and has to roll and fumble for it in the dark, squinting at the screen when it lights. 

**Mycroft Holmes:** I can’t, either. How can I help?

 **Greg Lestrade:** Be in bed with me? 

He does wince this time. Hard. 

**Greg Lestrade:** Sorry, no. You okay?

 **Mycroft Holmes:** Let me send a car. 

Greg has to stop himself from leaping out of bed. He has the words typed: _Are you serious? Because if so,_ when his mobile rings. 

“I will, of course, be in the car when it retrieves you,” Mycroft says, and there’s a shuffling, rustling sort of sound in the background. Putting on his jacket, Greg is fairly sure. 

“Mycroft…”

“Say yes.” It’s breathed over the line. “Because I can’t sleep. My bed is… too big. And I wanted so badly to ask you to come home with me.”

“Jesus,” Greg whispers. “Yes, okay. I’ll be waiting outside.”

  
  


***

  
  


Greg expects the car to pull up and idle while he gets inside. He doesn't expect Mycroft to be driving it. He doesn't expect Mycroft to double park it and get out. He doesn't expect to be grabbed with both hands, hauled in close, and kissed into another plane of reality. 

But that’s what happens. That’s _what happens._

And fuck if Greg can help himself. So help him, he couldn’t stop the words leaving his mouth, when they break apart, if he tried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh, I love you all. Click next chapter for that epilogue!


	14. Epilogue

_On what would have been the morning of the last day of their quarantine, Greg wakes in a different posh house, with the same posh man._

_He thinks they open their eyes at the same moment, but he can’t be sure. He knows he starts laughing first, and that it’s contagious and sets Mycroft off._

_“Come here,” Greg whispers._

_Mycroft comes there._

  
  


***

  
  


A week later, they’re in St. James’ park with Rosie Watson, and Greg shows Mycroft how to do ‘the thing with the swinging and the hands’. 

“The _what?”_

Greg laughs. He’s got Rosie’s left hand in his right. He mimes a swinging motion with it. “She’s tiny, so we can’t go _crazy,”_ he says. “But you hold that one. And I hold this one. And we lift her and give a little— you know: _wheeee!”_

Mycroft glances down at tiny, toddling Rosie Watson. “She’s so small,” he says, quiet and fearful. 

“She’s two,” Greg replies, as if to say: _yes, she is small,_ and, _but that’s why you have to toss her in the air while you can,_ at the same time.

“Alright,” Mycroft murmurs, nervous and a little skeptical. 

He takes her other hand and Greg says: “Ready, Rosie? Yeah? Ready? One! Two! Three!”

  
  


***

  
  


_Mycroft presses him down into the mattress, kisses him sleepily and with gritty eyes, with morning breath and all, and Greg opens up under him without even the smallest of pauses. This is what he needed - to know that this would be waiting for him in the morning. This is why he couldn’t sleep._

_How is he ever going to sleep in his own flat again?_

_Mycroft kisses sweetly down the center of his chest, and Greg doesn't care if he ever sees his flat again._

  
  


***

  
  


“I could have hired someone for this.”

Greg peeks over the other side of the sofa they’re moving up the stairs of Mycroft’s brownstone, aiming to deposit it in the second floor lounge, where the old, less plush leather furniture used to live. 

“Okay,” he says. “But then it wouldn’t be _our_ sofa, that _we_ moved together.” 

“That makes—” Mycroft grunts as he takes another backward step up, hauling his end of the frankly absurdly soft suede sofa with him. “That makes _no sense.”_

“Well, you know how I get.”

  
  


***

  
  


_“I meant it,” Greg murmurs, kissing the taste of himself out of Mycroft’s mouth._

_“I know you did.” Mycroft is still shaking, still twitching a little with the occasional aftershock. “I did, as well.”_

  
  


***

  
  


“She really loves you both,” John says, handing Greg the giant diaper bag while Sherlock is showing Mycroft, impatiently, how to throw open the collapsible cot. “So I’m sure it’ll be just fine. Smooth sailing, right? We’ll be back by noon tomorrow.”

“Make it two,” Sherlock snaps. He nods his thanks to Greg and then grabs John by the arm, hauling him out of the Pall Mall house. 

“They’ve left her here with us,” Mycroft says, gobsmacked, staring at the little girl perched on his own hip. “Oh god, they really _are_ out of their minds.”

“Uncle _My,”_ Rosie says, firm and reproachful, as if chastising him for besmirching the good names of her parents. 

“Yeah, Uncle My,” Greg drawls. He moves past with a light smack to Mycroft’s arse. “Come on, she’ll be wanting supper.” 

“I didn’t mean that, Rosie,” Mycroft says solemnly. “They’re very sensible and… ah… _good._ Your fathers. Keep that in mind.”

Greg has to bite his lip to keep from laughing, has to force himself not to glance back at them. He does chuckle, though, when Rosie’s response to that is an enthusiastic and quite pointed razzing sound. 

  
  


***

  
  


_“What if I just don’t leave?”_

_Mycroft glances up from his half-hearted review of the documents Anthea delivered to him that morning. “What if you don’t?”_

  
  


***

  
  


“You bloody romantic,” Greg sighs, taking in the fancy china and the gorgeous two-hundred-year old candlesticks laid out on a blanket on the floor of the second floor lounge. “This is an anniversary dinner, eh?”

“You can stop calling me a romantic as if I’m the only one,” Mycroft informs him as he’s lighting the tapers. “After all, I’m not the one who said—”

Greg cuts him off with a kiss. “I love you,” he murmurs.

Mycroft smiles, slow and sweet and lovely. “Yes,” he says. “That.”

  
  


***

  
  


_“On the first date and everything,” Greg manages to joke, wincing._

_They’re standing, frozen, on the pavement outside Greg’s flat, Mycroft’s Audi double-parked in the road._

_And Greg just pulled away from that brilliant kiss and said, like a complete nutter, “God, I love you.”_

_“This isn’t even our first date,” Mycroft teases, eyes still wide. “I… we already did that. I believe I wined and dined you, and you gave me my own cat. I distinctly remember it.”_

_“Well,” Greg allows, “it was only ten days ago.”_

_Mycroft laughs and kisses him again._

_“You don’t have to say it back,” Greg says, after. “Obviously. I really am sorry, that was… weird, of me.”_

_“No, it wasn’t,” Mycroft says. “But… give me time. Is that alright?”_

_It is absolutely alright. Greg nods, can’t bring himself to speak._

  
  


***

“God, I love that man.”

Greg laughs, watching Laura collapse back onto the lounger next to his own in his and Mycroft’s lovely little Pall Mall garden. 

“Christ, but he can cook,” she continues. 

“I _know.”_ Greg sighs happily. “I’m so fucking lucky.”

“Yeah, you are.” 

A ways away, Mycroft and Callie are deep in conversation on the glider seat under the little Japanese maple, undoubtedly discussing which of her lecturers at UCL are complete idiots. 

And toward the back corner of the garden, Laura’s lovely (accountant) boyfriend Gene is kicking a football back and forth with Henry. Gene’s been taking to this like a duck to water. He’d been a little stiff at first, but months later, he’s really doing great. Greg likes him. Laura _adores_ him, which is what matters.

Lily is somewhere in the house, no doubt curled up with the cat and a book. 

“It just doesn't get any better than this,” Greg murmurs, reaching for his sister’s hand. “Does it?”

“Nope,” she says, linking their fingers. “It really doesn't.”

  
  


***

  
  


_That first morning in Pall Mall, Mycroft shivers in Greg’s arms in the early morning light and says: “Actually, I’ve changed my mind?”_

_“Mmm?”_

_“Time is over-rated.”_

_“What?”_

_He leans in close, delivers one cheeky little nip to Greg’s earlobe, and whispers: “I love you, too.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is a [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3mPtbkZhPehkvt1gCHjkjb?si=2yN0SvPHQi-noX_Go-0z2A) of the songs that lent titles or lyrics to the chapter titles of this fic. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for rolling around in all the fluff with me. This was just something I wanted to do for fun, and it really was just pure joy and delight. Not much plot to speak of, just me playing around with a version of these two and what might happen if all there was to do was talk and fall in love. For me, this was just another of those "everything is beautiful and nothing hurts" things I needed to do this year. Because lowkey fuck 2020 but highkey - the fandom for this pairing is amazing and I love you all. 
> 
> We're gonna make it, y'all. Thanks for being such a balm to my soul with your lovely comments and shouting in chats and on twitter. Let's do more of it soon <3

**Author's Note:**

> <3


End file.
